Lyra's Story
by Gryffindorscholar
Summary: Defunct, not that original in the first place.
1. Prelude

Author's Note: Hello everyone, and welcome to my first attempt at fan/phan fiction. I hope that you like it, but even if you don't, PLEASE R and R! The only way I can get better is by learning what I'm doing wrong. Help me out!  
  
Disclaimer: Everything that you recognize belongs to Mssrs. Leroux and Webber, or another of the great authors-authoresses that have, in the past, brought this story to life. If you do not recognize a character, however, they are most likely mine. May they make you glad that you read this. In conclusion, I am earning nothing by writing this, except, perhaps, a couple of complements. Do not sue me.  
  
Here goes!  
  
There wasn't much money to be found in Paris that year. The economy had dropped yet again. No one was getting along very well, but the poor were doing even worse. There was no food, no clean water. Shoot, there wasn't even a place they could use the rest room without worrying about rats. Life was never good for these people, but lately it was horrible.  
  
It was from these people that Lyra came. She was the daughter of a woman who had long since forgotten her name. How then could she be expected to remember the name of the man who had fathered her child? She hated Lyra with a vengeance, whenever she was sober enough to remember her. But Lyra, like all children, loved her mother.  
  
It was on Lyra's sixth birthday that her mother decided to get rid of her. She pulled some strings and, with some long-forgotten bit of compassion, took Lyra on a ride through town in a cab. Lyra was so excited! She had never been in a cab before. She had always had to depend upon her own two feet. The horse seemed like a fairy-tale creature, for she had only heard about them from the other people in the slums. The woman took her all through town, finally arriving in the part with huge mansions and lit streets late at night. There she directed the cabby to stop. -------------------------------------------------  
  
She was gone.  
  
The phrase screamed through my mind and body when I was awake, and through my dreams when I slept. No matter what I did, I saw her face, heard her voice. She was everywhere, in everything I saw or heard. The time I had had with her replayed itself through my mind, no matter what I did. Finally I came to a conclusion.  
  
I couldn't live without her.  
  
So I set about putting my affairs in order. I sold all of my valuables that had survived the mob, leaving the money I received on a table in my house on the lake. When she came back to bury me, she would find it there. Perhaps it would bring her and the boy happiness. It would be my wedding present. I left Ayesha there as well. Nadir had been annoying me constantly. He had made it a principle to check in about once a week, and if she wouldn't take care of Ayesha when she heard, Nadir would.  
  
Finally, I had everything done. That night, I went out walking, surveying Paris for the last time. I came to a stop on a well-lit road through the aristocracy's part of town. I stood in a small shadow, looking at the life I had been denied.  
  
"Why not here?" I thought. "Why not now? It would be fitting, a suicide on the steps of a palace. Irony runs rampant in Paris." I brought out my gun, for it would be exceedingly hard to hang myself on this street. I held it to my head, ready to end everything.  
  
Just then, at the most inopportune time imaginable, I heard a carriage approach. I swore softly, jammed the gun into its holster, and eased back into the shadow. To try anything else would have been stupid, and I was never that.  
  
The carriage was a dirty, ramshackle bit of equipment. The nag looked as if it was about to drop dead, the wheels tottered from side to side, and the entire structure was held together with little more than cloth and paste. Such a conveyance was as out of place as I was. I watched, incredulous, as it pulled to a stop in front of the most expensive house on the block. The door opened, and a small voice began to scream. -----------------------------------------------  
  
"No! Mama! Nooo!"  
  
Mama pushed me from the carriage. I was barely able to stop my head from bashing against the cobblestones. What was happening? What did I do?  
  
"Get out of here, Jacques!" That was Mama's voice!  
  
The carriage began to pull away. I pulled myself to my feet, running after it.  
  
"No Mama! No! I'll be good! I promise!"  
  
"Faster Jacques!" ------------------------------------------- The child never had a chance. The horse, whipped to new heights, took off down the road. Even I would have been hard pressed to catch it. Which left me with the question, what was I to do? Should I go after the carriage? That wouldn't be doing the girl any favors. Should I just leave her, hoping, as the mother must, that the people on this street would take her in? I knew better than that. The aristocracy is never that kind or generous. That left only one alternative.  
  
No, never! How could I subject a child to...  
  
I watched as, about a block down the way the girl collapsed. I could hear her sobs, even from where I was. They didn't sound as they should. Something about them, what was it?  
  
She got up again, and began to walk back this way. Her lanky brown hair concealed her face, but she couldn't have been more than seven, surely. The thing was, if she kept this way, she would be sure to notice me.  
  
---------------------------------------------  
  
So, Mama had left me. I knew she would eventually. Why wouldn't she, I was a freak. She had told me for years that no one could ever love a freak like me. Still, I couldn't help crying. I loved her! But, she was like everyone else. No one would play with me, why would anyone want to be my mother. What was I to do now? Not stay here! I walked along the boulevard, not daring to look up. I would want to stay, and that would let people hurt me again.  
  
Then there was a sound from the shadow. I had lived in such a neighborhood that I knew what people in shadows could do to people like me. I started and looked up, peering into the shadow. Was that a person?  
  
------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Who's there?" she called in a tear-choked voice. "I know you're there, I can hear you and see you. If you don't come out I'll scream!"  
  
I couldn't allow that. Not now that I knew why her sobs sounded so strange, and why her mother abandoned her.  
  
"All right, all right. I'll come out. Don't be scared."  
  
-----------------------------------------------  
  
The voice! It was like mine! I stared, scared and unbelieving as the man came from the shadow.  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
I stepped out slowly, trying not to scare her. The moon was full that night, and I could feel it light my mask as I came out from under the tree. Her expression contorted from awe to fear, to awe again. She came towards me, and the light illuminated her features even more clearly. There was no doubt now as to her face. I felt as if I had stepped back into time and confronted myself. The skin was no thicker than a piece of parchment, and it was stretched unnaturally tightly over her bones. The veins stood up out of the face, like rivers on a relief map. Her eyes were sunken in and blue. I knew, however, that if the street were not as well lit they would shine yellow. Her mouth was misshapen, much to wide at one end and much to thin at the other, but the voice that came out of that mouth was quite extraordinary. My mind was made up at that moment. It did not change as she asked one question I never thought I'd hear.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------  
  
"Please sir, are you my father?"  
  
"What?!" he asked.It made so much sense. Mama hadn't known who my papa was, and this man had a voice like mine! He also had a mask on. Maybe his face...  
  
"Are you? Could you be? My mama lives on Grimmerie Street, on the top floor of the old house there. Is it possible that you knew her? She didn't know who my papa was and,"  
  
"No!" the man cried. Of course, the thought must scare him. "No," he said in a softer voice. "I'm sorry, but it's quite impossible. You see," he said, reaching up and pulling his mask off, "No one would want me to be their little girl's papa." -------------------------------  
  
She stared at me, wondering and silent. It was very strange, most people pull away screaming when I lose my mask. I winced at that thought. Then she smiled and surprised me again.  
  
"I'd want you to be my papa!" ------------------------------------------------  
  
If somebody looked like me, then it would be impossible for them to hate me, wouldn't it? They wouldn't make fun of me or leave me all alone for hours. I waited for him to answer, and hoped.  
  
"You would?" he asked. He didn't sound as if he believed me.  
  
"Of course I would! You look like me, and you talk like me! You wouldn't hate me like everyone else does. That would be like hating yourself! Nobody can do that, not really."  
  
"You'd be surprised." he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.  
  
I considered that. "Maybe," I decided. "My mother must have hated herself. But still..."  
  
"That's not to say," he added hastily, "That I'd hate you."  
  
I smiled, "Really?" I asked.  
  
"Really," he answered, holding out his hand. I reached out and took it. With his other hand, he pushed his mask into a pocket. ------------------------------------------------  
  
This was amazing. I must be dreaming. It was either that, or the god I had so long hated had just saved my life. I felt the gun pressed against my side and knew that I couldn't use it now. I had a reason to live again.  
  
I smiled down at her. "Come on," I said, "we're going home." 


	2. Fanfare

The first time I saw the house on the lake, I was amazed. To me, there was never a house as beautiful or grand. As Papa (so I called him, even though he had explained his name was Erik) poled us across the lake, I watched it come closer.  
  
"Is that it?" I asked in awe. "That can't be it! It's beautiful!"  
  
He laughed. "Thank you. Yes, that's it."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Of course, I built it."  
  
"Wow. You can do everything, can't you?"  
  
"Not everything. Not by a long shot."  
  
The boat pushed up against the dock. He jumped out and tied it up. Then he reached back and pulled me out.  
  
@---@---@  
  
She couldn't have had a good meal in years. As I picked her up, I could have counted every rib. She didn't even seem to notice though. As soon as I put her down she ran towards the house. She pulled up short a few yards away.  
  
"But, what happened? It's all torn up!"  
  
How was I to explain everything? Well, that was simple, I wouldn't. Not now anyway. Maybe not for years. Not until she could understand. Though, judging by what I knew about her already, she could probably understand almost anything right now. I'd still wait.  
  
"There were some people that got really mad at me for what I'd done. I haven't had time to clean up yet."  
  
"Oh," she said knowingly. "Yeah, I know what you mean. One time, I climbed out of the window, when Mama had locked me in my room, and I went to visit my friends. When I got back, Mama had ripped up all of my things, including my bed. It wasn't really that bad, I didn't have much to begin with. But it took me a long time to get a new tick for my bed."  
  
We walked into the house, and I took her to her new room. It was the only one that the mob hadn't torn to bits, mostly because they didn't see the door. I quickly fixed that so that it was openable from either side, and opened it.  
  
@---@---@  
  
He opened the door to a room so beautiful I could have never imagined it. It was all made up like a princess's room. There was a real fireplace, and a big bed with a cloth stretched above it. There was a big wooden piece of furniture the size of the horse that pulled the carraige with doors in the front. Everything was made out of a red wood, and the only other color was blue. I just stared, not caring if I looked like a dope.  
  
"Oh," I breathed, "Whose room is this?"  
  
"Yours, if you like it."  
  
"Like it!" I exclaimed. "It's beautiful!" I walked into it, reverently touching the beautiful things. I turned back, "Mine?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Wow!" I jumped onto the bed, marveling at its softness. Then I wizzed across the room to another door. "What's in here?"  
  
@---@---@  
  
She pulled the door open, and then stopped, as if she had been struck. -Oh @$$#@!- I thought. - The mirror.-  
  
Earlier, when the last occupant of this room had still lived here, I had installed a very expensive full-length mirror. Like everything else in this room, I couldn't bear to get rid of it. I had bought it for one person, and the thought of someone I didn't know using it was beyond me.  
  
Right now, I wished I had sold it.  
  
@---@---@  
  
I stared in horror at the thing looking at me. It was a skeleton, dressed in a brown sack, with long brown hair streaking down from its head. I nearly screamed before I realized it was my reflection. Then I nearly screamed anyway. Instead, I closed my mind and the door.  
  
"Oh, the washroom. I'll have to use that tomorrow, won't I? I'm very dirty, I guess. Right now though, I'm kind of tired. It's really late."  
  
"Of course," said Papa. "But, I'm afraid that I made a mistake. You saw the mirror in there?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well, I sold that to a man a few weeks ago. I just realised that I was supposed to deliver it tonight. It's supposed to be a birthday present for his wife, and her birthday's tomorrow. I'll have to take it to him tonight. Do you mind?"  
  
"No," I said, grateful past all belief. "No, of course I don't mind! You gave me a room and a home! How could I mind a mirror?"  
  
"Good," he said, and walked into the washroom. There, he unceremoniously pulled the entire thing right off the wall. I stared in disbelief, that thing had been bolted to the wall! Then he walked out, closing the door behind him and calling, "Goodnight!"  
  
I stared at the closed door until I heard the main door close a few minutes later. I was alone again. Suddenly suspicious and scared, I ran over to the closed door and pulled on the handle. It opened easily. I was free. I could leave if I chose. Instead, I closed the door and went to the chest at the foot of the bed. There I searched desperately for something I wouldn't feel bad about sleeping on. But everything there was sumptuously made. I finally gave up and fell onto the bed. I was asleep almost before I hit it.  
  
@---@---@  
  
After I left the room, I went into the den. There was the wad of money I had left. I had a use for it now. I took it and the mirror and left the house. The mirror was quickly disposed of, I left it in the prop room on the third floor of the opera. Then I set out on a shopping spree. In the shops open at that time of nightI bought clothes for Lyra along with food for both of us. I then set about buying furniture to replace the splinters that remained in the house. It took me all night, but when I was done we were set up for quite a while, at least long enough for me to set up relations with the managers again. I had everything delivered to a certain opening in the opera. By the time I got back, it was all there. Then it was a simple matter of putting it away.  
  
@---@---@  
  
I slept late, and when I woke up I knew that Papa had been there in the night. I ran over to the big-doored furniture and pulled it open. Inside there were many many outfits, all about my size. There was everything from gowns to little pants and shirts. It all depended on what I liked. I did not like dresses. I immediately pulled out a beautiful outfit of blue pants, a white shirt, and a blue vest. Then I walked into the washroom and took my first real bath. I knew how to work everything because of a friend of mine, Berniece. She had been rich before her family had thrown her onto the street. Baths were the things she missed most, and she would talk of them for hours. It took me very little time to determine that they were just as wonderful as she had always said.  
  
After I got cleaned up and dressed, I walked back into my room. I wanted to find out exactly where everything was. I explored all of the drawers, grinning at all of my finds. Then, in the last drawer, I found a mask, just like Papa's, only for a girl and just my size. I touched it, torn. On one hand, this would protect me from people who didn't like how I looked. On the other hand, it seemed like a betrayal, to myself if not to Papa. I finally decided to leave it where it was, just until I needed it.  
  
Somewhere in the house, a bell rang. I walked over to the door and opened it, searching for the source of the noise. It came from above the fireplace in the den, seeming to come directly from a small brass figure of a boat. That had to be a doorbell. Someone was coming across the lake. I ran back to my room and pulled a small dagger out of my discarded sack of a dress. Then, as an afterthought, I gabbed my mask and put it on. Then I was off to greet the newcomers, be they friend or foe.  
  
@---@---@  
  
Erik had left a boat on the main side of the lake, thankfully. I didn't relish the thought of swimming through that black water. As I poled across, I heard the doorbell ring. At least that hadn't been broken. I reached what was left of the dock, got out, and bent to tie up the boat.  
  
"Who are you sir? What do you want here?"  
  
I froze. The voice was obviously feminine and young. That led to two questions. One was who was she and what was she doing in Erik's home. The other was if she was dangerous. That wasn't an idle question either. I was in a compromised position and anyone who Erik would take in would be dangerous in their own right.  
  
I cleared my throat. "My name is Nadir. I am a daroga, from Persia. I'm Erik's friend. Please, where is he?"  
  
"Oh, stand up!" came the voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were a friend of Papa's! I'm not sure where he is, I haven't seen him since last night. He's probably asleep in his room."  
  
I stood and regarded the girl. I tried to hide my surprise, but I was probably unsuccessful. If not for the long hair, tied at the neck, and the voice, I would have assumed that Erik had somehow been shrunk. How had he found such a child? When had he found such a child?  
  
@---@---@  
  
The man stared at me and then asked, "Pardon me, but beneath the mask...?"  
  
"I look like my father."  
  
"Your father?!"  
  
"Well, he's not really my father. He saved me! My mother abandoned me, and he took me in. That was last night."  
  
"Now really Nadir," came a voice from behind me, "Don't you know that in France it is very impolite to stare so?"  
  
"Papa!" I cried happily, turning and hugging him. "Thank you for everything! It's so wonderful. I've never seen so much that's so beautiful! Thank you so much!"  
  
@---@---@  
  
I looked up at Nadir, nearly as suprised as he was. Then I laughed.  
  
"You're welcome Lyra. Now go back to your room. I think you'll find the contents of the trunk have changed quite a bit since last night."  
  
She looked up at me in wonder and then ran into the house. I turned to regard Nadir. "Well for goodness sakes daroga, say something!"  
  
"What are you possibly thinking Erik? You can't raise a child, a girl!"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Erik, you live under an opera house. You are also a murderer. That is hardly something to look up to."  
  
"But, you will of course help me raise her."  
  
"WHAT??!!!"  
  
"Of course. The truth of the matter is, daroga, I will not give her up. She has no one else to go to. And if you don't help me, her moral status will be entirely your fault. Do you want that on your head?  
  
Nadir always did know when he was beaten. He did mount a last defense, though.  
  
"What about the drugs, Erik?"  
  
"Sold, every last grain and bottle, and I have no intention of buying anything else."  
  
"There'll be withdrawal."  
  
My mouth felt dry. "I know."  
  
Then Lyra raced out of the building. "Oh Papa! Books! And Toys! Oh Papa, thank you!"  
  
I found myself in another fierce embrace. -Papa.- I thought. All I said was, "You're welcome Lyra." 


	3. Fantasy

To my readers: When I looked at the last version of this chapter, I noticed that it STANK. Why didn't you tell me that? Anyway, I tried to incorporate all of your suggestions in this version. Hopefully, it will be better. Thank you for your reviews, and tell me what you think.  
  
Disclaimer: I own Lyra, Old Theo, the street rats, and anyone else you don't recognise. If you do recognise anybody, they belong to the people that created them. The song is from The Unsinkable Molly Brown, by Meridith Wilson.  
  
As always, lines mean that the point of view changes. If this is confusing, just tell me and I'll fix it up.  
  
The withdrawal came quickly. It sort of eased in, but when it finally hit, it hit terribly hard. Nadir came to check up on me, and he found me practically biting my nails off in the parlor. I somehow managed to convey to him that Father had made less and less sense over the last few days, until he had stumbled in there last night with the firm, if hazy warning that I was not to follow. Needless to say, I was terrified, and when I say terrified I mean gut- wrenchingly, "I just found a father and now he's gonna die what in the world am I supposed to do what can I do to help oh please not now!" terrified. I had seen druggies in the streets, goodness knows, but the thought that my Papa could have stooped so low was utterly foreign to me. Nadir charged into Father's bedroom and I was right behind him. We found Papa draped across the bed, mumbling into it and covered in vomit. Nadir finally found out that the only way he could calm me down was to make me useful. Together we cleaned off the bed, and Papa, then placed him back in, a little more comfortably.  
  
The two of us sat by his bed (I later found out that a real bed for himself was another of the things he had purchased that night.) and took care of him. It was the worst thing I had ever seen. He would scream things about angels and gypsies and cages, and then he would get really quiet, which was sometimes even worse. Sometimes he would thrash around, nearly breaking the bed, and then he would just lie there for hours. I lost track of how long it was that we sat there. It could have been a couple of days, or nearly a week, we never did find out. Once in a while, either Nadir or I would fix some food or fall asleep, but it was an as needed situation.  
  
I remember, once in that time I tried to ask about the past and how Nadir had met Papa. It didn't go very well. I learned that the daroga had been sent to find him by someone in Persia, and then he shut up, refusing to tell me anymore.  
  
"If you really must know, ask Erik when he gets up!" he said. "He's the one who knows the whole story, not me!"  
  
Of course, I couldn't do that. Papa was wonderful, but I didn't want anyone mad with me. I couldn't bear to lose this home too, and I had a feeling that the past was just something you didn't ask about. But I let it go.  
  
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She had been raised in a gutter, I know, but Erik's life was a veritable horror story. It was not mine to tell. Besides, I didn't want to scare her away from Erik. On the other hand, she didn't need to think that he was, well, angelic. We had seen where that went. I finally decided to tell her some of the truth, and then lost my nerve. I suppose that I blew up at her, but so it goes.  
  
Really, it scared me. As we talked, I found that she was far beyond her years mentally and emotionally. Anyone in my place would have been wary. Just the situation in general was enough to make me nervous. I mean, here is this man who I assumed was unique in all of the world, and then this girl shows up who not only looks like him and has a voice to rival his, but is also as brilliantly intelligent. I knew that, though she was mild- mannered now, she could also grow lofty and develop a temper. Those conversations were enough to make me decide that I would try and help Erik bring her up, although he had never harbored any doubts. ---------------------------------------------------------  
  
When Father finally woke up, he didn't come all the way out of his stupor. He'd float in and out of consciousness, sometimes looking up and recognizing exactly what was going on, sometimes crying out in horror when he woke, and sometimes staring around and murmuring, in a voice that cracked and broke, "Christine?" Then Nadir would sit up and look at him with this really strange expression, kind of like sorrow, but mostly pity and anger, and say, "No Erik, Christine's gone." That was the only time I saw Father cry for years. Nadir wouldn't tell me who Christine was, so I put her name at the top of a list in my mind. I knew that it would be and important list, so I set it up carefully. Eventually, I had it so well memorized that all I had to do to examine it was close my eyes. The title of the list was simply "Clues." If Nadir wouldn't tell me about the past, I'd figure it out for myself. -----------------------------------------------------------  
  
The process of grounding on the shores of sanity was much harder than slipping away. I felt everything I had ever experienced pounding through me, even, no especially, (say her name, da** you Erik, say it) Christine. Christine. Even her name sent me reeling back into the past. It was only her, Lyra, and -well yes- even Nadir that kept me connected to this world. I would have fought even without them, this was not how I wanted to die. I have to admit, though, that I probably would have died, or gone insane, without them. For the first time in my life, I thought that I was lucky, with my daughter and my sometime-friend there, but I always wished that there was another person as well, with the title of my wife.  
  
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When Father was able to sit up and talk lucidly for more than a few minutes, Nadir decided that it was time for him to leave. Frankly, nobody's personal hygiene was very good at the moment, and we all knew that Father and I could get along all right. Mother had left me alone for enough time that I knew how to make stuff that was at least edible, and so I figured that we at least wouldn't starve. Father , promised that he would be up in about a day (though he was the only one to believe that), and one person was all he could stand fussing over him. Nadir left, and was back in about an hour, saying that he hadn't imagined that it was the twenty-second and he had to catch a boat so we had jolly well better be able to take care of ourselves. He deposited a hissing, clawing cat, Ayesha, on Papa's bed and ran out. That was the last time we saw him for years.  
  
In the meantime, I set about trying to take care of Father, as he set about trying to take care of me. This worked pretty well after a while, and we soon set up a system. I would take care of the food and the house, and he would make sure that I was taking care of myself as well and try to compliment my cooking, although he wasn't very convincing. Contrary to what he had promised, Father wasn't able to get up for about a week, and then he was pretty unsteady. He saw this as an utter failure on his part, and I still had to do a lot of the work, but I didn't mind. I wouldn't have minded anything. This was the first time in my life that I had been treated as anything more than a bug. Now, I was an equal, or nearly so. I had an almost equal say in my life, and that was more than enough for me. So, by the time he was fully recovered, we had already set up a schedule, and that is what we kept to.  
  
In the afternoons, after we had done all of the chores, like housecleaning (which was a disaster for the first few weeks) we would do lessons. These consisted of reading, writing, mathematics, science, grammar, history, music, and anything else either of us thought worthwhile. He had bought me some beginner-reading books, and he taught me how to read with those. I soon found those disgustingly simple, so he began to read harder works with me, explaining some things as we read. We covered everything from Dickens to Homer in the first year.  
  
He also began to teach me to sing. He believed firmly that real conditioning should not start until the voice matures, so it was all basically learning easy little songs, some by the masters, some just popular, and some by him. The first lesson in that was hilarious. He told me to sing any song, so that he could see where to start, and I sang the first one that came into my head. It was a tune I had learned from Old Rocs, a drunk from Grimmerie Street. The lyrics were something like  
  
Belly up! Belly up to the bar boys! Better loosen your belts! Only drink when you're alone Or with somebody else!  
  
Belly up! Belly up to the bar boys! Let your money be seen! Only drink by day or night, Or somewhere inbetween!  
  
There were about six more verses, but Papa stopped me there. There is no way to describe the look on his face, although if I had to, I would say it was something like amused horror.  
  
"Is that all you know?"  
  
"Well, the only people who really sang much on Grimmerie were either drunk or stoned. I know a lot of songs like that, but I think that I know six verses of "The Ballad of the Bloody Bloody Sailor Boys."  
  
That was when he started to teach music appreciation. Soon, I hummed Mozart and Beethoven, with only an occasional bawdy song inbetween.  
  
We also worked on reading music, which I found just as easy, and piano, organ, flute, violin, and many other instruments. In fact, music was the main subject in our school, although we covered everything else exhaustively. The basics were there along with anything he thought that I should know or I took a fancy to. So I learned, over six years, architecture, art, ventriloquism, English, Spanish, Turkish, German, Russian, self defense, pick pocketing (which was totally my idea and father tried to turn into slight of hand), first aid, dancing, animal training, sewing (his idea, which I violently protested), gardening, and basically anything else you can think of. We both loved school. He had someone to teach, and I had something to learn, which was totally new for me at first, and then just as much a part of me as breathing. And when we sang together, even simple little bits of doggerel, or did duets of any kind, life was perfect.  
  
Then, after we were tired of lessons, we would go exploring. At first, we stayed in the opera house, which I soon knew like the back of my hand. Then, when that became boring, we went all over Paris. Sometimes he was as impressed by the things we saw as I was. I was sure that he hadn't seen them either. I added this to my incredibly small list of clues.  
  
Life was perfect.  
  
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When I taught Christine, it had been a heady kind of bliss. I had reveled in the pure talent that unfolded in our lessons. Now, it was completely different. It was not bliss, but pride that charged me with every new accomplishment. Lyra's voice was not the extent of her talent, but one part, like a facet in an unflawed jewel. I found that conversation, and knowledge, was just as rewarding as song, in a different way, if you found the right person to talk to. My music wasn't as needed anymore, because I didn't have anything to escape from. I still worked on it, whenever I had the chance, but it wasn't everything anymore.  
  
I found myself wanting to think about my past, as if I couldn't go foreword without going back. It was not a wonderful feeling, in fact it brought nightmares that I have never rivaled since. But, in time, I got the idea of writing it all down. At first, I thought to set it to music, but it threatened to become another Don Juan Triumphant, brooding, painful, mad, and dark. Then, I wrote it down as a narrative and left it in a secret safe in my room. Somehow, years later, I found out that odd pages had disappeared, which was soon explained in Mssr. Leroux's twisted narrative.  
  
Neither of us wore a mask, because it wasn't needed. Everything was so much easier, and better, without a mask, that I began to dread putting it back on when we went places at night. Lyra hated hers as well, and we eventually decided that we'd just wear cloaks except for on occasions where the mask was unavoidable. The first disaster we encountered was due to this.  
  
I had promised Lyra that we would visit Notre Dame. So we donned our cloaks one rainy night and set off. We were pressed for time, I had to set up a new agreement with the managers, and I had planned to start of negotiations that night. So, I was planning that, and walking fast, and not really paying much attention to anything. I was about half way there before I realized that Lyra wasn't with me.  
  
I turned, swearing in several languages, and went back over the path. --------------------------------------------------  
  
I was walking after Father, truly I was. But then I saw something in an alley. I figured that I would be able to check it out and then go after him. I turned into the alley, and the shape separated into a group of boys. In the middle, crouched and shaking, was a little old man. Even in the dark, I could make out the cuts on him, and the knives in the hands of the boys.  
  
"What are you DOING?!"  
  
"Th' old man's a witch. We're doin' th' cumminity a fav'r. Ai'n we gang?"  
  
"Thas' right!"  
  
"Witches are women, you ingrates! Let him go!" I knew the man, it was crazy old Theo. True, he was strange, but he had never done anyone harm.  
  
"Why're you so worried? Who are you?"  
  
They had slowly come up around me, and now one reached out and grabbed at my hood. I gasped and tried to catch it around me, but I couldn't do it.  
  
Even in the storm, they could see enough.  
  
The leader swore. "She's a demon he's called up! Can't be anything else!"  
  
"He's not to strong then, is he?"  
  
"Don't look like much of a demon to me. Maybe she's a spook!"  
  
"Is it a she? I think it's just an it."  
  
"Whatever she is, she'll squeal.  
  
"We can take her Creeny!"  
  
The knives suddenly had a new target, and I was it. I drew my own dagger from my belt, it was my favorite weapon at that time, and plunged in. -----------------------------------------------  
  
By the time I got there, the fight was in full swing. There were seven boys all told, four with wounds of some kind. They broke up as I entered the alley. On the ground, there was an old man, and Lyra. I pulled back my hood, angry as I hadn't been since that last night, after Don Juan. Then I pulled out my gun. The fools would probably just laugh if I brought out the lasso.  
  
"Listen. I will only say this once. Get out of here. Run. If, in five seconds, any of you is in range, so help me I will shoot you." I was surprised at my own voice. It was a cold, hard sound, not like it was usually when I was mad.  
  
They ran. I shot anyway, knocking brick shards onto their heads. Then I bent down, to Lyra. -------------------------------------------------------- I was already sitting up. I had a few deep cuts in my torso, and a long, shallow one across my face. I looked a mess, but I knew I'd be fine.  
  
"Check old Theo! I'll be fine, but he's really old!"  
  
Father bent over him. "He'll be all right. We'll drop him at the hospital on the way home. You need to be treated."  
  
I was quiet all of the way home. My cuts didn't hurt as much as the comments of the boys. In the slum, no one had noticed one more deformity. This experience was completely new to me, and it hurt a lot.  
  
"Are you really going to be all right?" asked Papa.  
  
"Yeah, I'll be fine." That was a lie, but oh well. --------------------------------------------------------  
  
I put off, going back up to speak with Messrs. André and Firmin for a few days. This time I decided to do it in a more, diplomatic manner. I told them that, unless they wanted me to cause even more trouble, they would resume paying my salary, but at double the former amount. They tried to fight, but it was futile, and they knew it. Finally, they agreed, and in return I made semi-frequent appearances, just to keep the people coming to the shows. After all, it was my opera house. If it went broke, I'd be out of work!  
  
So we lived, for almost seven years, in relative peace. That's not to say that the incident in the alley was not repeated in different forms, it was bound to. But, mostly, life gained a kind of normalcy. By day we worked in our house, and by night we explored Paris, and helped the opera. Then, Nadir came back and our carefully structured world was shattered. 


	4. Rhapsody

Yes my friends, I'm BACK! I've got all of the chapters up to 7 completed, but I am fishing for more reviews by staggering them. If you've come to this chapter directly, read chapter 3 first, I completely redid it! Hopefully, it's more interesting now. Okay, here goes! We start with Erik.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone that you recognise. However, if you don't recognise them, I own them. They are MINE!! If, by some strange and incalcuably unrealistic chance you are a Leroux or Weber, DON'T SUE ME!  
  
Erik had almost killed me several times, and I remembered every one of them very well. So it might not have been the wisest thing to do. I mean, showing up out of the blue, and then trying to. But I did it anyway. I felt guilty for leaving Lyra in his hands for so long after I had decided not to, and it was the only thing I could think of.  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
"Nadir, it is not an option. I will never do it, and she will never consent. Give it up."  
  
"Erik, she can not stay here. She just turned twelve! It won't be long before she begins to think, and feel, like a woman. You're everything she's ever known, and you've installed that da** love of privacy in her. Who will she turn to with her questions? Worse, we are the only people she knows, really, and she doesn't know me that well! She needs to be around women!"  
  
"I have had very few experiences that recommend the company of women."  
  
"I have had many. Erik, if we leave it the way it is things could get messy. She NEEDS to have other ideas, other people in her life! She's becoming just like you!"  
  
That wasn't good. I wouldn't wish my life on Raoul de Changy, much less Lyra. As much as I hated it, the idea gained feasibility. Maybe I HAD sheltered her too much. I just didn't want her to be hurt, no more than I could help, at least. I sighed.  
  
"What do you suggest Nadir? Public school? They barely exist anymore. With all of the unrest, the few that still stand are more dangerous than the streets!"  
  
"Well. I was thinking more along the lines of boarding school."  
  
--------------------------------------------  
  
He exploded. I hadn't seen him this angry for a very very long time.  
  
"Boarding School!? You fool, those things are cruel to even the most prominent.."  
  
"Exactly," I interrupted. This would be my only chance to prove that I was right. I couldn't blow it.  
  
He stopped, completely. "So, you are suggesting that we send her as the unfortunate daughter of a very, very, very rich family? Nothing else would possibly work. (He paused for a long time.) Nadir, this is hopeless. Even if the matron takes her in as a star pupil, the other students would loathe her. She would be the smartest one there, the most talented, and the only one with a mask."  
  
"But if they didn't loathe her. If just one became her friend, wouldn't that be worth the risk?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Erik she needs experience in the world. I know you don't want to lose her. I don't blame you, not at all. I've lost my own children, and I wouldn't wish that on any one. But you won't lose her. You just have to let her grow up." I waited, and then added, "You asked for me to help you, and now I am."  
  
He sank into a chair, his head in his hands. Despite everything, I wished that I didn't have to join the ranks of those who hurt him. But I was fighting for Lyra. I truly believed that this was the best course of action for everyone.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
Maybe he was right. Lyra needed to see more of the world than I could show her. If nothing else, it would show her just exactly what she was up against. I hated this! I felt as if I had suddenly been pulled back seven years, to when I sent Christine away. But I said  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
"All right Nadir. You win, this once. Lyra will go to a boarding school, one I choose."  
  
I stopped just beyond the door. I couldn't have heard that right. Father had promised never to leave me or send me away long ago. He had sworn! I turned back to the door and, well, practically shouted "WHAT?"  
  
They turned and saw me. Papa merely stood there, while Nadir said, "Boarding school won't be that bad. You'll meet lots of new children, and."  
  
"I WON'T GO! FORGET IT NADIR! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO COME BACK AFTER SIX YEARS AND TELL ME WHAT TO DO WITH MY LIFE?"  
  
"Lyra, I agree with Nadir. It's best this way. I've taught you almost everything I know and.."  
  
"Liar."  
  
"Well, not everything, but really, it will be best. You need to meet other people."  
  
"I do that here Papa... I sneak out every Saturday to visit some of my friends."  
  
"I know, but if you go... There needs to be someone to actually recognize you for your learning. You don't want to become an opera ghost do you?"  
  
"Well, no... But I don't need to go anywhere else! Graduating takes years Papa!"  
  
"Yes, but even I have studied under different people. And with you, graduation will probably take a couple of years, at most." He came up and put his hand on my shoulder. "You can be so much more than I am, Lyra, if you only take the opportunity. Please, will you try?"  
  
I stared up at him, and then lowered my head in defeat. "All right, I'll go to boarding school. I'll even try to stay there. But you Nadir," I added, meeting his eyes, "you can go..."I was cut off by my own conscious and Father's look, so I resorted to turning and stalking angrily from the room.  
  
The next few months were very predictable. That's not to say that they were uninteresting, but any educated reader can guess what they contained. The house became cold and silent, as it hadn't been before, and I was very plain about how much I HATED Nadir, who consequently didn't show up much. Father and I slacked off on our lessons for the first time ever. Instead, I read or worked on my own, and he composed with a vengeance. I will leave the parting totally to the reader's imagination.  
  
Madame Thernandier's School for the Musically Gifted was highly praised by all of its patrons. They were said to have the best musical program in France. Father had chosen it himself, out of all of the schools in the world, but when I first saw it I knew I didn't agree with his taste. It was a huge old wooden mansion, a few miles outside of Marseille, painted black, and totally foreboding. At the door, the headmistress resembled nothing more than a vampire. She was tall, thin, and garbed completely in black as well. Her face was unnaturally pale, and her hair was a dirty color of gray. She came foreword to greet me.  
  
"Mademoiselle Angen, welcome to our school. I trust that the following years will make you proud to be here and us proud to have you."  
  
"Nothing would please me more, Madame..."  
  
"Oh, of course. My name is Madame Renifler, I am the headmistress here."  
  
"Well Madame, it is a pleasure to be here."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
She had been examining me, unabashedly, all of the time that we talked. I reached up to make sure that my mask was in place, and stared at her back. Finally, she turned away.  
  
"The servants will get your bags. Come along, lessons are already in progress."  
  
She dragged me through the house into a set of double doors. We were in the back of a huge classroom. There were at least thirty girls in it, not to mention the teacher. I was appalled to realize that I was expected to go to the front with her, but there was not much I could do about it. She had a very hard grip, and the only way that I could have broken it was violent. So, I came along.  
  
"Your Father, she said, has told me that you are very far along in most subjects. But I have given the orders that you are to start at the bottom of each class and the teachers will advance you as they see fit. We all know how kinship can blur the eyes."  
  
"I assure you Madame, there is nothing wrong with my father's sight."  
  
That was the wrong thing to say. She shot me a look that could have melted iron, and I nervously smiled. But she couldn't see that because of the mask, so it had no effect.  
  
"Mister Fuller, this is our new pupil, Lyra Angen. She has come to study, but she seems to think that she is too far along for us."  
  
"Well surely," said the tall, blonde, blatantly English man, "her family would not have sent her if she was too advanced. We shall have to see, won't we."  
  
"Mister Fuller," I said, in English, "I meant no offense. I know that I have much to learn still, and I am far more than willing to do so. I did not mean to insinuate that I was too good for this school by my statement, I only wanted to protect my father's name. If I went about it incorrectly, it is largely due to my inexperience with people outside of my family. I do beg your, and Madame Renifler's pardon."  
  
Mr. Fuller grinned in delight. "And you may have it child! I have not heard such a flawless accent before in all of the time I have taught here! Tell me, who was your tutor?"  
  
"My father taught me everything I know, sir."  
  
"He must be a remarkable man." He turned back to Madame Renifler. "Madame, there is absolutely nothing I can teach this girl. She has flawless English." The room erupted in a loud mumbling. "I recommend that she be asked which of our languages she would like to take. Which would you, my dear?"  
  
"I was wanting to learn Old English, but if that is unavailable I'd like to learn Swedish."  
  
"Do you mean to tell me," Madame Renifler asked, "that you have no interest in Russian, German, or Spanish?"  
  
"Well Madame, I already know those too." This was not the way to start. I was barely able to breath, and the students had long since stopped pretending to murmur quietly. Madame Renifler, she of the unfortunate name, had lost her sickly pallor and adopted a very red blush, that colored her face the hue of a tomato.  
  
"Very well!" she cried, "Swedish it will be!" So saying, she hauled me out of the room. I barely had time to call a goodbye to Mr. Fuller before I was gone.  
  
The Swedish lesson was the only one of the day that went as she expected it to. I was dragged from room to room, and all of my teachers either sent me on or put me in the hardest level of their class. By the time all of the school classes were done, I had a schedule of Swedish 1, Calculus, Advanced Biology, German literature, and Advanced Geography. I was also one of the assistant teachers in self defense. Then came music.  
  
Author's Note: If you are a Le Mis fan, you caught the Thernandier. Yay for you! Thernandier- the name- belongs to a Mssr. Victor Hugo.  
  
In a completely unrelated note, the writers at CSI wrote in our favorite Phantom! That's right ladies and gentlemen, in an episode a few days ago, one of the characters was named Erik Ridan, but his alias was Nadir Kire, which is the same name backwards! Hence, both Erik and Nadir made guest appearences, and CSI is now officially my favorite T.V. show ! 


	5. Discord

Author's note: Yes, here I am again. Really, you guys have to start reviewing more! I'm all the way up to chapter 10 now, and the story is running away with me! I want to see what you think. But not until then. A familiar name comes up in the next chapter, as well as a face that we all know (and wish we didn't.) Want to hear more? Then REVIEW!  
  
Disclaimer: We've been through this. I own Sara, Lyra, Jezzelle, and the teachers. For this chapter, that's it. However, there is no one in this chapter that anyone else owns either, So HA!  
  
Everyone was talking about the new girl. Rumors had been flying for weeks, and now they tripled in size and number. There was a group of older girls in Calculus with her that swore she was a criminal mastermind who had come here to hide from the millions of people who wanted revenge for the lives she had taken. Some awestruck English students decided that she was a beautiful princess that was going to be killed by a rival power. I, personally, had no idea who she was or where she came from. So, I decided to ask her.  
  
I had to wait until after school left out, and I found her coming, fuming out of the music room. I stepped out to intercept her and her head whipped up angrily. I stepped back. We stood, examining each other for about a minute before she said, "What do you want?"  
  
"I'm Sara Cortez, from Spain. I was the new kid last month. I just thought that you might need to talk to someone. I still don't have many friends. These French do not welcome strangers very easily."  
  
"Oh!" she exclaimed, relaxing, "!Hola Sara! Forgive me for attacking you like that, my last lesson didn't go very well."  
  
"You mean, you don't like the teacher. That's okay, no one does."  
  
We walked together down the hall. I kept throwing her glances out of the corner of my eye, unable to stop myself. She noticed, and turned to me.  
  
"So, what are the rumors about me? I assure you, I am not a cannibal or anything like that."  
  
"Don't give anyone any ideas. The rumors are too many to tell you. I'm just curious about the truth."  
  
"Good for you! Most people are too pleased with rumors to even consider searching for the truth. But, in this case, the truth is pretty boring. I wear a mask because I was born deformed. I was raised by my father for the past six years, until a friend of the family convinced him that it would be good for me to go out and get an advanced education. I've been pretty sheltered, and I'm not really sure what to do here. What about you?"  
  
"Oh, I'm not very interesting," I said. "I am the daughter of a rich Don by a woman who is married to another man. My father wants nothing to do with me, and neither does my mother, so I've been sent here. My half- brothers call me the opera girl, because it's almost as if I could be cut out of one. An opera, that is."  
  
"That's more interesting than I am!"  
  
"No, it's really tedious after a while. Do you have plans for lunch? You can eat with me if you want."  
  
"Sure! So tell me about the music teacher...."  
  
-----------------------------------------  
  
Everyone was talking about the new girl. They said she was a genius, and I worried. I had been the best student here for as long as I could remember. There was no way that I could lose that now. So I waited for her to show up in the dining hall for dinner.  
  
She showed up with that little Spanish girl, Cortez. I came over to their table and sat down.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Oh no!" Sara said. "It's Jezzelle. She's a real bully. She's extremely rich, and Madame's favorite."  
  
Jezzelle sat down. "So," she drawled, "You are the new girl? Angen, isn't it? From Paris? How odd, I don't remember anyone of that name there."  
  
"We aren't a well known family."  
  
"Oh, that's too bad. Is it true that you are in Calculus? Amazing, for someone so young. You must be a little genius. I heard that you didn't do as well in music, though. That's true isn't it? Something about scaring off the guest? A pity. Perhaps if you took off that mask."  
  
Her hand darted out, but I caught it before it could reach my face, and squeezed. She lost her smug little grin and replaced it with a gasp of pain.  
  
"Mlle, no one touches my mask unless they want to lose the use of their hand."  
  
She whimpered.  
  
"I advise you not to try again." I released her hand with a flick of mine. She gathered it up to her and retreated to the other table. I suddenly realized that the entire room had fixed its collective attention on my table. I turned to Sara. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to lose my temper. Sometimes it just happens."  
  
"Don't apologize! I hate Jezzelle. She calls me names that I will not repeat. But, she's definitely against you now, and she rules half of the school. Come on, I'll introduce you to my friends."  
  
P.S. Sorry this one is so short. It's really just setting the stage for bigger and better things.  
  
Angelofnight, I'm pretty DARNED honored that you would want to turn this into anything.  
  
Thank you Dayanara for such a wonderful compliment. It's really what I needed to hear. If you hadn't reviewed, I might just have given up.  
  
Lady Death, and Redkiss, I've thanked you before, but never by name. Allow me to fix that. Thank you for reviewing.  
  
'Till next time! 


	6. Rondeau

Hello again. The chapters before this were exactly as I planned, or nearly so. They went along the outline fairly well. This chapter, however, was the first where the story took on a life of its own. Is it better, worse? I don't know. All I know is, it hasn't stopped running away from me. All I can do is hang on for the ride. Tell me what you think!  
  
Dear Papa,  
  
I just got through my first day of school. So much has happened! I've made an ally, and three powerful enemies. The ally is Sara Cortez, who prides herself on coming from an opera. She's from Spain, and now I have a practical way to use my Spanish! I think that she will be a friend, but the rest of her group are still rather wary of me.  
  
The enemies are Jezzelle Thernandier, the head girl and one day owner, Madame Trelass, the music teacher, and Madame Renifler, the headmistress. I take no responsibility for the mutual hatred that is between us. They are the most odious people I have ever met  
  
School goes well. I'll probably graduate within the year, and then I will come back to our house on the lake. I miss you and Ayesha. I'm in all of the highest classes, just as you said I would be, and my teachers don't seem too bad.  
  
Papa, I need to ask a question. Today, when I went into music, I was expecting, well, music! Instead, the old woman who teaches, Madame Trelass, announced that a guest speaker, a very old friend of hers, La Carlotta, would speak to us about making music a profession. Then out came this terrible old woman, very overdressed and with a voice that had broken long ago. She went up onto the stage, and we sat in the audience. I was interested in what such a woman could say, and I sat in the front row, center. She stood and looked out at us. She drew in breath to speak, and she saw me. The prodigious breath was let out as a scream. She yelled, and I quote, "El fantome! He has returned! Murderer! You killed my husband! Arrest... Save..." Then she fainted. Father, who did she mistake me for? I've only ever seen one mask like mine. Please explain this Papa.  
  
Well, back to music class. Madame Trelass turned on me as soon as La Carlotta was taken out. "Well," said she "you are what scared her, aren't you. The new girl. Class, since our sspeaker iss indessposed, we shall ssee if our new companion iss as good in this ssubject as she iss in all of the otherss. Come up on sstage Mademoiselle. Let'ss ssee what you can do."  
  
Well, I went up and asked what I should sing. She told me to sing anything, so I launched into Rosina's aria from The Barber of Seville. ( You told me not to go too high, but it is pretty difficult even if it is only mezzo soprano.) I got about halfway through and the woman yelled "SSTOP!" She has a terrible problem with her s's. "A bit of a show off, are we Angen?"  
  
All I had wanted to do was to show her what I could do! That's what she had told me to do, after all. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn't let me speak. "For your pride," she said, "you shall not be allowed to ssing anything but sscaless for the next two weeks, and then we shall sstart you on ssome ssimple ssongs."  
  
I shall be singing nothing but nursery rhymes for the next three months! Frankly, the woman is a perfect ssnake! I wish you taught here instead!  
  
Your loving daughter, Lyra  
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
Dear Lyra,  
  
It is as you suspected. I knew La Carlotta seven years ago, about a year before I found you. She was the prima donna of the opera. There is no way that I can explain everything that I need to tell you in letters. When you return for Christmas break, in two months, I will tell you everything. That is, everything you do not already know, which is probably only about a fourth of it.  
  
It is dismal here. I've resorted to plaguing the ballet girls again. That tells you something about how bored I am. One can only stand so many shrieks at once.  
  
The only really important thing that has happened, is that Ayesha is pregnant. I suspect Andre's old black tom, but I'm not really sure.  
  
Rosina's aria was probably not your best choice in songs. Then again, you never did make very good choices when asked to pick a song. Thank goodness you didn't launch into one of your tavern ballads!  
  
I've enclosed a copy of my new piece. Yes, I finally finished it. It will give you something to do in the off moments.  
  
(Here there is a scratched out, barely legible, set of initials: O. G.)  
  
Your Papa  
  
-----------------------------------------------  
  
Dear Papa,  
  
That was a very small letter for such a large work! I love it, but see if you like my changes in the third movement.  
  
The first week is gone. Madame Trelass makes music terrible, I don't care if I did show off! I mean, scales, scales, scales! She won't even let me prove to her I know them. For the past week I have sung and played nothing but C Major, G Major, and D Major. I shall go mad!!  
  
I wish that I was not instructing self defense. If I was supposed to be learning, I would have a reason to attack something. Instead, I have to wait until we demonstrate a new move to do anything. I'm going to ask for permission to use the gym at night, just to get some of this energy out. I cannot afford to lose my temper again.  
  
Your writing skills leave something to be desired. Make the next one longer please, and I shall try to do the same. I miss you and Ayesha. Dump Nadir in the lake for me.  
  
Lyra  
  
---------------------------------------------------------  
  
Dear Lyra,  
  
I apologize for my letter. I'm used to short, clear, threatening ones. It's always worked with Andre and Firmin!  
  
Nadir has told me to send you a "soggy" hello, so I am.  
  
Tell me about this girl Jezzelle, and Madame Renifler. Describe their odiousness. How does they compare to the terrible La Carlotta and Madame Trelass? What have you tried to get them to stop? Perhaps I could help if I knew more.  
  
The changes in the third movement were terrible. However, you did have a point with them. I made some, different changes, loosely based on them, and it is better. There is a copy of that movement in this envelope. No more changes!  
  
I've set up a business. Yes, I am that bored. It's an architecture company, and I'm already quite busy. I work through a man named Leros. Right now, I am concentrating on a terrible, made to order mansion. I'll take you to the site when you come home.  
  
How are you getting along with this Cortez girl? I checked up on her background, you could do worse. Both of her families are quite respectable, more so than ours at any rate!  
  
Good luck with school, Papa  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
Dear Papa,  
  
I've done it. I'm sorry. For goodness sakes, stay clear of the police. I'll try to send another letter soon. I'm sorry.  
  
Lyra  
  
-----------------------------------------------------  
  
Mssr Angen:  
  
We at Madame Thernandier's School for the Musically Gifted regret to inform you of the expulsion of your daughter, Lyra Angen. Her personal effects follow this letter.  
  
The Management  
  
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Dear Papa,  
  
My last letter needs to be explained. I'm sorry it was so short, but I had no time.  
  
There was a Christmas Dance at the school, to send us off for break, and the teachers invited the nearby St. John's Academy for Boys. I didn't feel like dancing, so I was just walking about the room, keeping to the crowds. Sara was sick that day, and I had no one to talk to, so I wandered about, listening to the music and the conversations.  
  
Then, I saw a little niche, occupied by a boy of no more than six. I sat and began to speak to him. He was quite a little fellow, and besides, he looked lost. He told me that his name was Phillippe de Changy,that he was named after an uncle, and that his parents had sent him to school to get an "edicatin." He had a passable voice, and was a very eager, if not impressive, conversationalist. The truth is, he wouldn't be quiet for two seconds together.  
  
Then, in the middle of a serious discussion about horses, Jezzelle discovered us. She was towing a huge, oxish boy with the expression of a kumquat. She made a lewd remark, something about the genius and her boy toy. I sent Phillippe out into the crowd.. Then I remember standing and slapping her HARD. It must have landed farther back than I intended, because there was a snap, her head twisted, and she crumpled. I knew her neck was broken. I killed her, Father! I killed her! I truly didn't mean to. I'm sorry.  
  
I ran. I made for my room, changed into traveling clothes, grabbed my case, money , and paper, and climbed out the window. I scribbled that first letter and ran for Paris. I'm wanted, I guess, because I was almost captured outside of Lyon. I couldn't risk taking endangering anyone in Paris. So, instead, I retreated into the country. It was my own good fortune to find the abandoned cottage I'm in now. I'll go to the village nearby to post this. I'm sorry Papa. I'll stay here for a couple of months before I come back, just to make sure that the coast is clear. I hope you'll let me come back.  
  
Love, Lyra  
  
See? I had no intention of killing off Jezzelle, or of getting Lyra out of that school so fast. It just happened! Erik's letters were extremely hard to write, so please don't flame me on them, but most of all, PLEASE R and R. Thanks! 


	7. Lullabye

And guess who shows up in this chapter!  
  
Disclaimer: Lyra, Phillippe, Rufus, and the baby all belong to me. Everyone else is property of someone else. The song was written by the incomprable Billy Joel, but it fits so I used it! (Thanks Billy!)  
  
I put down the letter and rested my head in my hands. This was ridiculous, and all my fault. I should have told her about my past long ago, that way at least she wouldn't be afraid I wouldn't take her back. The problem was that the coast wasn't clear. The Thernandiers were not happy. In fact, they were furious. There were men all over Paris, searching for Angens. For the first time, I was truly pleased that I didn't have a last name. Those things had suddenly become dangerous. Well, at least now I didn't have to worry about that school. Now we both had a whole new set of worries. For instance, where was she? She had been going up the Eastern side of the country... What would she eat?  
  
There was a bell. -Nadir again.- I thought. Sure enough, in a few more minutes he came in.  
  
"Erik, is there any more news?"  
  
"Yes, there is." I handed him the note.  
  
He read it slowly, and I got up to pace the room.  
  
"Merde!" he whispered. -And in French!- I thought, amused.  
  
"Well, at least she'll see the world now, eh daroga? She hated that school, but at least it was warm and had food. She doesn't have anything now, Nadir. Her clothes were delivered to the office yesterday."  
  
"I'm sorry Erik. I had no idea that this would happen. Can you find her?"  
  
"I'll have to try, won't I?"  
  
"And, de Changy... Is it?"  
  
"Yes it is, Nadir. They had a child, no more than a year after she left. He's named after the late Comte."  
  
"So they know then."  
  
I looked at him, exasperated. "Of course they do, Nadir. Neither one of them is stupid."  
  
He snorted.  
  
"Well, not THAT stupid."  
  
----------------------------------------  
  
I was quite pleased with the house. It was a wonderful find, just outside of a small town, and yet reclusive enough to be extremely hard to find. It must have been someone's summer cottage at some point, it had a wonderful little pond in the back and a very convenient garden which, although it had run a bit wild, produced enough to feed two people at least. The only trouble I would have was with real meat. Hunting was not one of the things I had learned.  
  
I tried to get along as well as I could. I fixed up the house, I was quite good at that by now, and chose a room to live in. To my delight, I found a box of old books in the attic, which I attacked with a vengeance. I fished and gardened. I did anything to stop myself from thinking about the dance. It didn't work.  
  
I didn't tell Father where I was in that letter. I very well could have! He would have come out here and either taken me back or lived with me. But, I didn't want to go back, or even to be around anyone. I was scared, and ashamed. So, I lived in solitude, stole a few steaks from the populace, and battled my guilt.  
  
---------------------------------------------------  
  
"Phillippe! Oh my darling, I'm so glad you're home!"  
  
"Mama!" I cried in joy. "Oh, Mama!"  
  
"Ah! Our little scholar back again." Papa entered into our hug. "How are you Phillippe?"  
  
"I'm good."  
  
"And how was school?"  
  
"Oh, it was wonderful! There was a dance, a few days ago, and I had to go because there wasn't anybody going to be at the school, and the dance was at a GIRL'S school. So I went, and I was really scared, and there was this girl who came and talked to me. She was really nice Mama, she reminded me of you!"  
  
"Did she?" said Mama with a smile.  
  
"Yeah. And she listened to everything I said and talked to me. And Mama, she wore a MASK!"  
  
The smiles that Mama and Papa had worn dissappeared.  
  
"Was it a masked dance then?" asked Papa.  
  
"Oh, no she was the only one there wearing a mask. But you told me never to make fun of people who are different, so I didn't. Then she sent me away, when the big girl came over and made fun."  
  
"She did?" said Mama. "And what was this masked girl's name?"  
  
"Ummm... Lyra. Yeah, that's it Lyra... Angen, from Paris. She didn't have a Mama though, just a Papa. She was really nice, she had a pretty voice."  
  
"Did she?" Mama wasn't happy at all now.  
  
"Why don't you go say hello to Rufus? He's missed you." Papa smiled.  
  
"Okay!" I grinned and ran out.  
  
---------------------------------------------  
  
As soon as he was gone to play with the Alastian, I sank into a chair. Raoul did the same, his head in his hands, the poor dear.  
  
"Surely not, Raoul. I mean, it couldn't be."  
  
"Yes it could, Christine. Think about it. A girl from Paris, named ANGEn, with a beautiful voice and a mask. She has to be related to him somehow. There are just too many coincidences."  
  
"The poor girl. And Phillippe said that she was picked on by an older student. Wait, you don't think that she's the one that..."  
  
"That the Thernandiers are looking for? Probably. She probably has a temper that knows no bounds. It would be extremely easy for someone with a temper like that to slap someone too hard. Then, who is to say if it was deliberate or not. I don't know, she might have sent Phillippe away BECAUSE she wanted to commit murder. And now there's a reward offered for her. Anyway, there's nothing we can do. Forget about her. Let's go play with Phillippe and Rufus. We still have to tell Phillippe about his special present."  
  
I rubbed my stomach, which was so large at the moment that I was sure that it would pop. "Yes, he always wanted a little sister."  
  
------------------------------------------------------------  
  
It was lonely in the cabin. Very lonely. But I couldn't go into town, they would arrest me! So, I decided to stop being Lyra, who was hunted. I went out to the pond, and cut off my hair with my dagger, trimming it with the pond as a mirror. I was twelve and a half, so there was no need for me to do anything else. I changed my name to Luke, and went into town.  
  
All told, I fit in pretty easily. I got into a few fights, and when I won I became an accepted member of street rat society. In no time, I was a scuffling, stealing, swearing, no-good hooligan, and I was good at it. I learned a lot from those guys, though most of it wouldn't be considered wisdom. The mask was actually benifitial, it gave me a "tough" look that no one else had  
  
But there is only so much that can be gotten out of such a relationship. True, my pick pocketing improved enormously, and my vocabulary expanded at a rate that was unbelievable. Yet, I wasn't happy. The truth was that I was homesick. I took to watching the town's families, especially the mothers. It suddenly hit me that I had no idea if my own mother was even alive any more. She had been cruel, and a drunk, but I had loved her. Then, I had forgotten her for years. I quietly added this guilt into my pile.  
  
There was one family in particular that I loved to watch. They lived out of town, in a mansion. I had seen Notre Dame and all of the houses of the rich in Paris, but this place was enough to take even my breath away. It was huge. The grounds extended for miles in every direction. In order to actually see anyone, I had to dissappear at about noon and hike until almost three o'clock. Then, I would hide up in a tree above the walking path, and wait.  
  
The mother took a walk at about three thirty everyday. She was pretty enough, with skin that was only beginning to show age, and hair that fell in waves of brown ringlets. However, it was her joy with the world that made her beautiful. The first time I saw her, one February morning when I was still out of breath from scampering up the tree, I thought, illogically, of angels.  
  
In better weather, she would walk out, her newborn in her arms and her dog at her heels, to a bench that curled luxuriously around a large tree just a little ways from the one I perched in. There, she would read, or write letters, or even, sometimes, just sit and think. Then, at about four, her husband would join her. He was undeniably handsome, and just as happy as she was. They would sit and talk for quite a while, in subdued tones that, hard as I tried, I could not hear. They would laugh and whisper to each other, so in love that it was almost disgusting. Eventually they would get up and walk to the house.  
  
From the snippets I did hear, I knew that they had a son away at school, and they couldn't wait for summer break to start so that he could meet his brother. The man, who I nicknamed Jacque, said something about hoping that he wouldn't be dissappointed that he didn't get a girl instead. They laughed at that.  
  
Then one day, the mother, who I had named Genevieve, came rushing out before I had even settled on my limb. She was sobbing madly, a bundle flopping in her arms. A fold of the cloth fell back, and I saw the bloated face of the baby, obviously dead. I gasped, and tried desperately not to cry. That would only give me away. All I managed was to hold back the sobs that threatened to rack my body and let the tears go. This wasn't right. I had never seen a family that deserved this less.  
  
She sat on the bench and began to rock slowly back and foreward, still clutching the little bundle to her heart. Then, with an unnatural suddeness, she stopped. She looked down at her baby and began to croon something to it. This wasn't good. I slowly began to climb though the trees, trying to hear her.  
  
"It's alright little one," she moaned. "Shhh, it's okay. You musn't cry so. Your father will hear you, and he will be ashamed. Shh."  
  
-Oh good Lord, no. She's mad!-  
  
"Hush, darling. You're just tired. So am I. So tired." She began to sing.  
  
Goodnight, my angel, time to close your eyes And save these questions for another day. I think I know what you've been asking me. I think you know what I've been trying to say. I promised I would never leave you, And you should always know Wherever you may go No matter where you are I never will be far away.  
  
Goodnight my angel, now it's time to sleep And still so many things I want to say. Remember all the songs you sang for me When we went sailing on an emerald bay. And like a boat out on the ocean I'm rocking you to sleep. The water's dark and deep inside this ancient heart You'll always be a part of me.  
  
Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dream, And dream how wonderful your life will be. Someday your child may cry, and if you sing this lullabye There in your heart there will always be a part of me.  
  
Someday we'll all be gone but lullabyes go on and on. They never die, That's how you and I will be.  
  
Her voice, which was as beautiful as the sunrise, broke at that last bit. She slumped over the baby and began to cry again. "Oh Father!" she cried, and then in a softer tone that seemed to rip out from inside her, "Oh Angel!"  
  
I slumped against the trunk, almost directly above her. I knew that song. Hadn't Father sang that many times, after I was in bed? I would lie, looking up at the ceiling and listening to him singing that. I just never knew who he was singing for.  
  
The father, Jacque, ran down the path. She looked up, gave a cry, and flew into his arms. He held her, and the dead baby, in his arms, stroking her hair. After a few moments, I could just barely hear him whisper, "Oh, Christine."  
  
I fell out of the tree.  
  
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Bumbumbum BUM! Want more? You'll just have to review!  
  
Oh, and, um, don't hurt me! 


	8. Intermezzo

Hi again. If you've gotten this far, and want to know more about where Lyra came from, see my story "The Origin." Right now, it's basically an outline, and I may make it longer at a later date, but it tells the essentials. Anyway, I needed to explain the how and whys of this story, and the explanation didn't seem to fit anywhere, so I stuck it there. But enough of my blather, on with the story!  
  
This had all been too much for both of us. The baby had seemed just fine when we put it down for a nap, but when Christine had gone upstairs to take it for their afternoon walk, she had screamed. I had rushed to her, my mind filling with images of masked men bent over the cradle, only to find her with our son in her arms. She had looked up at me, and I had known.  
  
"Christine," I had said, "these things happen. Here, give him to me, darling."  
  
She had cried out like an animal, and raced outside. She had doubled back to this tree, and it had taken me all of this time to find her, and our unnamed child. We were going to let Phillippe name him... I held her tighter, murmuring her name.  
  
And a large, black form fell out of the tree.  
  
I jumped back, pulling Christine with me, and then turned to face whatever it was.  
  
------------------------------------------------------  
  
I scrambled to my feet, and both of them gave a cry when I brought my head up. "Please, Madame, Monsieur, I mean you no harm."  
  
"Then what are you doing here? How dare you spy on us!"  
  
"I wasn't spying! I just, watched."  
  
"Can't you see that we do not want to be watched?"  
  
"Yes, sir. But, I..."  
  
"Get out of here! Now! And don't ever come back!"  
  
I turned, and began to walk off, but then Christine called, "Wait!"  
  
I swiveled to meet her eyes. She walked up to me, pulling free of her husband. She got very close to me, and then she reached out to touch my mask. I gave a start and pulled back. Her eyes widened, and she whispered, "Erik?"  
  
----------------------------------------------  
  
The boy looked exactly like him. There was the mask, of course, but the graceful way he moved, and the way he talked... It couldn't be Erik, of course, but...  
  
------------------------------------------  
  
"No Madame. Not I. Erik is my father."  
  
All of my doubts vanished. This was definitely THE Christine, the one I had heard about so often, but never heard anything definite about. She stared at me, and I could see what had made my father fall so completely in love with her. She was such an innocent that I almost pitied her, and yet envied her at the same time. Up close, directly before her eyes and within her voice, it would be very easy to forget the world. This was the kind of woman that every orphan wants for a mother. -But I am no orphan, - I reminded myself. -For all I know, I have a mother still. -  
  
"Erik has a son?" she asked softly.  
  
"No Madame," I laughed, "a daughter."  
  
She stared at me again. "It's much easier to be on the streets when you are disguised as a boy, and since I was traveling alone, I figured that it might as well be the safest way." At the word "alone", I heard her husband relax, with a sudden release of air. I turned, so that I was talking to both of them, and asked, "Please, how do you know him?"  
  
That seemed to wake both of them up from some trance that they had fallen into. He came up, to stand beside Christine, and she tightened her grip upon the baby.  
  
He looked at me, "As if you didn't know. Surely he's told you."  
  
"Raoul, would you have told her? I mean, really?"  
  
"Perhaps not. However, none of this gives an explanation for her being here."  
  
"That I can give." I interrupted. "I was sent to a boarding school, which I had to leave on very short notice. On trying to return to Paris, I found that... it was impossible. So, I found a small house nearby and settled in for a wait." Here I got kind of embarrassed. "But, it was very lonely, and I needed companionship of some kind. So, I disguised myself as a boy and went into town. The friends I had there were, well, uneducated, and I was lonely still. So, I took to coming out here to watch you for a while every day. I was homesick. Now, I will beg your pardon and be on my way."  
  
"On your way then," said Raoul, his eyes filled with cold hate.  
  
I turned again and sprinted off. However, in about an hour, long before I saw the town, I heard hoofbeats behind me. I turned, and it was Madame Christine, on a splendid white mare. I stopped, just to watch her.  
  
She pulled up beside me. "Forgive my husband," she said, "But his experiences with your father have made him prejudiced. I... That is, today is not a good day for me to entertain. Will you come back tomorrow?"  
  
I looked up at her, scanning her features. After all, it hadn't been an hour ago that she appeared mad. Now though, she seemed quite sane. I finally said, "I'm afraid that I have no clothes suitable for a call on such a mansion, Madame."  
  
"That doesn't matter!" she said. "You have come to call on us today in that, you could well come tomorrow too."  
  
I looked down at my outfit. It had once been a sensible set of brown pants with a white shirt and a belt. Now, it was little more than rags. My fall from the tree hadn't helped it at all. Next to her spectacular green and white dress, I looked like a vagrant. A dangerous vagrant. I blushed at the difference, and was very glad of my mask.  
  
"Why? I've spied on you for months, I've seen everything today, why in the world do you want me to come to tea tomorrow?"  
  
"Tea? That is an idea. If you could come at about four... But of course, your question is sensible."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---  
  
How could I say this? How much did this child know about Erik? Not much, if she didn't know who we were. How could I tell her that, at one point, I had - loved - her father? All of that was far too delicate to convey from the back of a horse.  
  
"I have a lot of questions that only you can answer. In exchange, I'll answer any that you have. Four o'clock?"  
  
"Four." the girl agreed.  
  
"Until then," I said, and rode away.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---  
  
I watched her go, and practically ran the rest of the way off the land. Then, instead of going into town, I went home. I needed to be alone; tomorrow would be a very big day.  
  
TO MY REVIEWERS!  
  
Angelofnight: Thank you for reviewing so often! Every authoress needs to feel appreciated! Keep it up please. (Speechlessness is a good thing, right?)  
  
Deanna: Thank you for your compliment and don't worry, I will write until I can write no more!  
  
Coolgirlgray: Like I said, don't worry. Posts should be fairly regular from here on in. I've got too many ideas about what OR could be to argue!  
  
Azure: Erik had a lot to do that night. I think that he would have made an exception. (He probably burned the sheets she used later!) Nadir's a hard character to write, so thank you!  
  
Morauko: If that makes you cry, just wait until the next chapter! (And don't worry, not everything is as it appears to be!)  
  
Until next time! 


	9. Accelerando

Disclaimer: If I owned The Phantom of the Opera Micheal Crawford would be in the movie, Christine would be a nice, sensible girl who cared more for hearts than looks, and Raoul wouldn't be a fop. Since I don't see any of those things happening soon, I guess I don't own it. WOW! That's a suprise! And, I'm not making any money, so nobody has the grounds to sue me. (Sticks tounge out.) Nyeah! However, I do own Lyra's character if not her name and if I see her running around anywhere else I will hunt you down and Punjab you out of exisistence. (That is, unless you ask me first.) So now that that is settled, on with the show!  
  
Christine:  
  
I stabled Aida, and went into the house. There, sitting just by the door, was Raoul. He stood as I came in.  
  
"Christine," he said softly, holding out his arms.  
  
I fell into them. We held each other, closer than we had in years. -He's such a boy.- I thought. -The poor dear, he's had just as bad a day as I have.-  
  
I tilted my head back to see him, and his lips pressed down on mine. I barely noticed. -I do love him. I do! I love him so much! But, sometimes...-  
  
He broke away from me, gazing down at me searchingly. "Are you all right, my love?"  
  
"Yes, Raoul. I'm fine." I paused, not sure how to phrase this. "The baby?"  
  
He knew what I meant. He always did. "I gave him to the servants. They'll prepare him, and we can bury him tomorrow."  
  
"Tomorrow!" He couldn't find out about the girl. In a way, I was cheating on him by having her here, if not physically then mentally. I was desperate for news about my Angel.  
  
"You're right, my dear. It's too soon. We'll bury him the day after." He turned away, but I had seen the tears in his eyes.  
  
"It's alright to cry, Raoul. It's natural."  
  
"I'm not crying," he insisted throatilly. "I... Christine, I have to leave."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I have buisness in town, and I probably won't be back until the day after. We can bury the baby then."  
  
"What buisness?" I had been married to him for almost eight years, and I saw what buisness in his face. "No. Raoul, please. She ran away, couldn't you see that? He would never have allowed anyone he loved to run around in such rags."  
  
"Perhaps he doesn't love her. Maybe he raised her for this sole purpose. Maybe he just hired her to spy on us, with a clever counterstory. Maybe he knew that you would think that. He's a genius, Christine, who knows what he thought! The point is, she was here. He obviously sent her."  
  
"How do you know? She could have been, I believe she WAS telling the truth."  
  
"That's what you WANT to believe! I just want to protect you!"  
  
"How, by getting Erik mad and yourself killed? He is innocent until you can prove otherwise, Raoul!"  
  
"Then I'll get the evidence to prove it to you! I have to do something Christine, if I don't I'll go MAD!!!"  
  
"Oh, Raoul." I took him back into my arms, comforting him as I did Phillippe. "Alright, go and try to get the evidence. However, you must not try to hurt him, no matter what you find. When you think that you have proof, come back here. Then we'll see what we can do. And for goodness sakes Raoul, don't get caught! Promise me!"  
  
"I promise," he whispered.  
  
I pulled back, and took his hand. My headache was back, but I managed to smile at him."Now, let's get you packed."  
  
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Lyra:  
  
The next morning, when I woke up in my little cottage, the roof was leaking terribly. I got up out of my soggy bed and walked over to the door. It was pouring, as if some celestial spigot had been turned all of the way on and left that way. The thought of walking all the way through that was, to say the least, unappetizing. But, that was what I was going to do.  
  
By the time I knocked on the front door, I was completely soaked. My hair clung to my head like a skull cap, and little rivulets flowed beneath my mask, making it almost impossible to see. All of my clothing, even my once-thick cloak, had stuck to my body like second and third skins. This, of course, made me feel quite confident when Madame Christine opened the door in a beautiful red and white dress. I noticed that she was leaning slightly to one side, but didn't think anything of it at the time. She looked out at me and gave a start.  
  
"Surely you haven't walked!"  
  
"I'm afraid so, Madame. It was all that I could do."  
  
"Oh. Come in then! For goodness sakes! Come and we'll see if I have something you could wear until that gets dry, and then we'll talk."  
  
I ended up, after about an hour, in her room, wearing the borrowed work clothes of the chief cook's eleven year old son. They were a bit tight in some places, and a bit loose in others, but they were much warmer than the ventilated outfit I had been wearing.  
  
"I tell you what," said Madame. "You can keep those. I'll buy the boy more clothes, and I'll throw these things out." She gestured to the pile of wetness in the corner.  
  
I wasn't about to fight with that. "Thank you Madame."  
  
"Please, Christine. What's your name?"  
  
"Lyra Angen, or, well, just Lyra really."  
  
She beamed at me. "Then you know our Phillippe! He came home for Christmas break gushing of a Lyra Angen who had befriended him at a dance."  
  
"Phillippe de Changy? He's yours? You are truly blessed Mada... Christine. He is one of the brightest children I have ever met."  
  
"Oh, thank you! Yes, he was precocious even when..." she trailed off, looking at the closed doors at the end of the hall. "Even when he was a baby." she finished in a whisper, tears trickling down her face. She pressed her hand to her head, and grimaced as if she was in pain.  
  
"I'm sorry Christine."  
  
"Oh well, there's nothing anyone can do about it now, is there?" she murmured softly. Then she brightened up and said, "Well, let's go down to the parlor. We can talk there."  
  
The parlor was, like the rest of the house, over done. There was nothing but velvet and wood, with no variations or striking differences. Seeing it brought Home into my head, pointing out all of the differences and triggering a wave of homesickness. I found a chair that had a little less padding than the rest and sank into it.  
  
Christine sat in a plush monstrosity that threatened to swallow her. When she sat, you could see the trussing she had holding into her dress. She was no small young girl, although you could tell that she used to be. She smiled at me and opened her mouth to say something.  
  
"Please, Christine," I cut her off, "tell me your story first. That way, I can know what I'm telling you."  
  
"Alright," she said, frowning. " although I don't really know where to begin."  
  
"The beginning would be preferable."  
  
She looked up at me, surprised, and let go a small bark of a laugh. "You're just like him. He would do the same thing if I was being stupid. He was never angry, he would just point it out..."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Of course you do. Well, I guess that it all starts with my father..."  
  
And so I learned the story. I was transported back in time, as was she. When she got to the first "kidnapping" she began to sing the song he had written for her. In a few lines, I heard his voice instead of hers. By the end, we were both crying,for vastly different reasons, I'm sure, but still. I couldn't tell if the story or her telling was what caught me up, but I think that it was both. Finally, the end came.  
  
"And I kissed him. In that moment, I pitied him more than any other creature on earth. I might have stayed. But, he sent me away with Raoul and the Persian. We ran to the boat, and all around us came the mob. They were swimming, like rats toward shore. There were door-openers, lamp lighters, cast members, people from the audience, everyone. I didn't care. I was with Raoul, and I was losing my Angel. I sang, but I don't know who I sang to. And then, his voice. It was the last time I ever heard it. I had killed him, I was sure of it. I cried all the way to this house. Raoul and I were married a week later, and Phillippe came nine months after that. The rest is probably obvious. Now it is your turn. Tell me, is he alright?"  
  
"First, where did you hear that lullabye? The one you sang yesterday."  
  
"Oh, that. My father sang it for me when I was young and I brought it to the opera house. Erik must have heard me singing it sometime, because he sang it to me as proof that my father had sent the Angel of Music at last. But, is he alright?"  
  
"Yes, Christine, father is fine. He found me on the street about a year after you left him. I'm amazed he was still alive. And, I'm sorry, but that is all I can tell you."  
  
"What! Why?"  
  
"Because you left. He loved you, and you loved him, but not enough to risk anything for him. If I told you where he was or what he was doing, you'd try and find him. Please, for both of your sakes, don't try. It would kill him when you left again, and it wouldn't do you any good either. Now, thank you for the tea. I must go."  
  
"But, it's still raining outside!"  
  
"I got here, I can get back."  
  
"But, I have to know!"  
  
"No you don't. You're married. You have a child. So does he for that matter, me. It would do no one any good."  
  
"Yes, I'm married. Married to a jealous boy who is suspicious even of children..." She seemed to forget that I was even there. Again, she pressed her hand to her head.  
  
"What?"  
  
She snapped back into the here-and-now. There was an unnatural light in her eyes. Her hand went from her forehead to herlap. "Yes, a husband who has deserted me to find out if an old rival of his is still fighting him. A husband who packed a gun when he didn't think I was looking. A husband who intends to break his vow. A husband with a death wish."  
  
"Oh cripes. Father!" I grabbed my soaking cloak and ran out the door to the sound of a mad woman screaming, "A husband who has practised with his gun every weekend for eight years!"  
  
I had to get home.  
  
A/N: Remember, Christine lovers, not all is as it seems, and REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!!  
  
Angelofnight: I took your advice to heart, really I did! Why shouldn't I? It's good advice. But, I write confrontation scenes that way. I guess that it's kind of like the fight scenes in X-Men, the Movie, you get several shots that tell the story from different points of view. And, like I've said before, I have written ahead quite a ways, so most of the future confrontations will be like that, next chapter for example. Hopefully this one wasn't as jointed, it had a lot fewer shifts in perspective. That's mostly because it really focuses on Christine and Lyra alone. Don't give up on me though, I'll try to make everything clearer from now on! (Hence the identification of who was talking in this chapter.) 


	10. One Staccato

A/N: Sorry I took so long y'all. I had a term paper due (shudders) and just haven't had time, or the site was freakin' out on me! Hope it's worth the wait!  
  
I ran to the stables and pulled the door open. I needed to get to father before Raoul did, or who knew what would happen. The only person guarding the animals was a stable boy, who was soon nestled in the straw, sound asleep, with a sizeable bump on the back of his head. I looked over the horses, and even as worried as I was, I couldn't help but be impressed. There were about six magnificent examples of the species in as many stalls. I hurridly examined them, finally picking out a huge, firey, black stallion from a stall marked "Marc Antony." I saddled him and was out within five minutes.  
  
The rain beat down and the road was slick, but Antony and I nearly flew. -Any sane person would be inside today, no matter how urgent their task. Let's just hope that the husband is saner than the wife.- I thought. -But, there was something about her. It wasn't just madness, brought on by the baby's death. What was it?-  
  
Antony was the best horse I had ever ridden. He was as fast as the wind and as strong as an ox. We cut the time to Paris in half. We were there by nine the next night.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
I had taken the coach, and the rain made the road into mud. It caught the wheels, and the entire carraige was out of commission by four that afternoon. I had taken two Belgiums, steady and strong when together, but hopeless when alone, but I didn't have a choice. I left one at an inn, with instructions as to where it was to go, and rode the other. It was so slow that it took until eight-thirty the next night to get to Paris. When I got there, I went straight to the opera house, to the Rue Scribe entrance.  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Being alone again had been hard enough. Not knowing where or how Lyra was, and not being able to do anything about it was nothing short of torture. I had searched for miles in every direction of Lyon and Paris, but there was absolutely no luck. The last letter was little more than a crumpled piece of trash now, the ink had worn off from all of the times I had unfolded it. I kept thinking that I had to be missing a vital clue, one that would tell me exactly where she was, but no matter what I did, I couldn't find it. I was disgusted with myself, and turned back to my music and architecture, trying desperately to forget for a few minutes at a time. Maybe she would never come back, and it would all be my fault.  
  
That day, I had been working since six, refining some plans for my latest commission. It was a mansion, made to specifications, and I could do very little with it. The BLIND woman had insisted that it be built with arches, columns, and butresses everywhere, most preferably inside. I loathed the thing by now, there was no way to save it.  
  
I was still trying to salvage a particuarly offensive room, I think it was the entry hall, when the Rue Scribe entance rang. There were only three other people that knew of that entrance, and two of them had dissappeared from my life years ago. That left...  
  
"Lyra!" I grinned. -She's come back! But, she never uses that door, not unless she must. Maybe she's in a hurry. Anyway, better to be safe.-  
  
I fingered the lasso tucked familiarly in my coat. At least I was prepared. I blew out the lamp and walked outside, intent on finding out what was happening.  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
I took the shortest way in, the one that only the two of us knew about. It was also the only one without a doorbell. -Oh, please.- I thought. -Let me get there in time.- I broke into a run.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Even after all these years, it still seems familiar. I know every twist and turn that the Persian, never did learn his name, showed me. I run all of the way. I've waited for this day for too long. It's time to show that monster not to mess with other people's wives.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
I watched as the figure emerged from the shadows. It wasn't Lyra, that was sure. This was a man, obviously a middle aged man at that. That left one candidate. He moved into the slim light offered by the one candleabra still burning and all doubt fell away. Raoul de Changy, and carrying a gun. He bent, untied the boat, and rowed across, reaching this shore in record time. He started walking toward the house and, coincidentally, me.  
  
Then, from my other side, there was a quick movement. I turned my head to see a familiar, small, form sprint around the corner of the house.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------  
  
There was a flicker of White. A quick movement. It's him! The mask!  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
He was right beside me, and he saw her too. He raised his gun. The fool! That wasn't me!  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
The next few moments were made up of instants. I came around the corner and the world fragmented.  
  
*Flash* Dark figure with gun pointed at me.  
  
*Flash* Another dark figure, jumping out of the shadows.  
  
*Flash* Gunshot.  
  
*Flash* Someone screams. I realize that its me.  
  
*Flash* Jumping figure makes strange movement in midair, falls to ground.  
  
*Flash* Recognize both figures.  
  
RAGE. Pain. I had been mad before, but not like this. This hurt. I reached into my pocket, pulling out the rope I had hidden there when I had changed. It was a good, thick rope, and it had only one purpose. I opened the loop at the end and ran forward.  
  
It took less than five seconds for the Comte Raoul de Changy to leave this world. I had been taught by the best.  
  
-----------------------------------------  
  
A/N: Now, before you review, remember that I am the ALL POWERFUL AUTHORESS and everything I do HAS A REASON! (Even if it isn't shown in the next seven chapters. -nervous laugh-) However, to my reviewers.  
  
Ladylupin: 100% right. It is, as you say, a concept phic, I'm glad someone understands!  
  
Morauko: As you can now see, there were reasons for Raoul's reactions. Plus, if the person I loved wasn't in love with me and our child had just died, I'd go a bit ape too. And, yes, it will be a bit akward, but look for Phillippe someday, if not soon.  
  
Angelofnight: Who isn't bothered for Erik?! 


	11. Adagio

A HUGE apology for the delay, but, unfortunately, this might be normal from here on in. I don't have a computer at home, and the one I am using may well be off limits until school starts back up. We'll see. Also, I'm trying a new format, to see if it makes the POV changes easier. Because of the shortness of this chapter, I will also post another today, but I implore you to review both. Thanks!  
  
------------------------Erik--------------------------------------  
  
The pain was numbing. The bullet had lodged in my shoulder. I could deal with pain., and it wouldn't be crippling. But I laid on the ground for a few seconds, stunned, before I finally forced myself up.  
  
Or, at least, I tried. By then, Lyra is bending over me.  
  
"Papa! Where did it hit you? Will you be alright?"  
  
"I'll be fine. Are you alright?"  
  
------------------------Lyra-----------------------------------------  
  
"Yeah." I answered. Imagine, asking me if I was alright! I hadn't been shot! That darned, stupid, FOP!  
  
"And where is this'fop'?" -Oops, I said it aloud.-  
  
"Dead," I answered. "I have a lot to tell you. But first, we've got to get you inside. Where are you hit?"  
  
"Right shoulder. Nothing too serious. That boy always was a terrible shot."  
  
"If that was humor, it wasn't funny. Come on, we've got to get you cleaned up."  
  
I served as a prop for him, he was loosing a lot of blood and was probably going into shock. When we got inside I deposited him in the kitchen (it would be easier to clean afterwards) and lit a lamp.  
  
The fact that he was wearing a white shirt did not help the tableau. It was bright red now, and so was I, I imagine. I ran to his room to get the first aid kit and went to work. The actual procedure didn't take long, but it seemed like forever. He was silent, probably from pain. I just didn't know what to say.  
  
Finally, after I was finished, I muttered, "Sorry I didn't get here sooner. I came as soon as I knew what was going on. The poor horse is probably going to drop dead I rode him so hard. I..."  
  
"What horse?"  
  
"Oh. His name's Marc Antony. I kind of stole him."  
  
He looked at me wearily. "You do have a lot to tell me. Did you know that you were humming as you worked just now?"  
  
"Was I? What was it?"  
  
"Something I wrote a long time ago, for the wife of the man outside. Where do you want to start?"  
  
--------------------------Erik-------------------------------------------  
  
First, Lyra fixed herself a sandwich, which was soon gone, (she couldn't have eaten for days at the rate it dissappeared) and got both of us cleaned up. I felt useless, but she wouldn't let me help. Then Lyra got a fire going in the parlor, and we sat together, her head against my chest, and told me her story. She had truly grown. -She's thirteen, but you'd never guess that now.- I thought as she told me what had happened to her. -She acts like an adult. My word, she acts like ME!-  
  
I listened to the whole thing, not letting her stop until she got to the end. I didn't care about Raoul, he could lay there for a while. I wanted to know about Christine, and how this whole thing fit together. It was incredible, there were so many coincidences. In a sane world, it wouldn't have been possible. But I knew that it was true. It was too outrageous to be a lie. Christine, mad, or close to it. Raoul, dead. A boy, Phillippe, without anyone able to care for him. The name of the white horse, Antony did not escape me either. I remembered Ceasar all too well.  
  
Finally, she reached the point where she had come around the corner. She looked up at me, maskless, and her blue eyes filled with tears. "Father, I'm sorry. What are we going to do with the body? Christine will know. She's not stupid."  
  
"First off, it's alright. I've killed quite a few men in my day. You couldn't help it, most likely." She nodded her head. "Secondly, we'll get rid of the body in a way that will, hopefully, throw Christine off of our trail. If she's as unstable as you say, that will be best. Finally, I love you."  
  
----------------------Lyra-----------------------------------------------  
  
I started. No one had ever told me that, not really. I knew that father loved me, but he had never told me. In fact, he probably hadn't told anyone since...  
  
"Oh, father, I love you too."  
  
He looked down at me and smiled slowly, as if his face was unused to it. "Good, " he said, kissing me on the forehead. "Now, let's take care of the body."  
  
In the next chapter, Drugs, Sex, and Violence! (Well, kind of.) Ayesha speaks (or at least, thinks)! And, I promise, it will be longer! Read on! (But Review too!) 


	12. I'm running out of chapter names here!

If you think that this chapter warrants a higher rating, please contact me so that I can change it without having it kicked off of the site! Read on!  
  
------------------------------Lyra--------------------------  
  
Understand this. Ayesha and I had never liked each other much. In fact, we hated each other. I was just as jealous of her as she was of me. We had reached a peace years ago, though, to make Father happy. Whenever he was around, we pretended to be the best of friends. That is, we were never openly hostile. When he was gone, though, the fur would fly - literally. I had decided long ago that at least this particular cat was evil.  
  
Perhaps this is why I was not surprised to see her, and about seven half- grown kittens, crouched around the corpse of the Comte. What surprised me, is that they seemed to be attacking it, in a kittenish way. One might take it for playful batting at the clothes, but it left the clothes in tatters. If de Changy had still been alive, he would have been bleeding. As it was however, the macabre tableau was completely bloodless.  
  
-Why would they do this?- I wondered vaguely as I stooped to pull them away, aquiring many kitten-scratch marks on my hands as I did. -Well, that's obvious.- I answered. -Ayesha told them to.-  
  
The lady herself was watching me, contentedly. She had every right to hate the Comte. (I couldn't think of him as anything else or I would go insane, I was sure.) If I was sure of anything, it was that she loved Father as much as I did. This man had hurt him, so why shoudn't she have some fun with her new battalion. We regarded each other for a moment, and as I met her crossed, blue-green eyes, I was sure that I saw her nod, almost regally. I nodded back. Then, the moment was over and I turned back to the kittens.  
  
-------------------Ayesha---------------------------------  
  
Perhaps I had misjudged the kitten. She had helped the master, as I could not. The least I could do is help her. With a brief meow, I brought my kittens to my side. She looked up at me, surprised, and bared her teeth in that strange way humans have, as a gesture of friendship.  
  
Perhaps I had misjudged her.  
  
---------------------Lyra--------------------------------  
  
I was looking at the body, rather at a loss, when Father finally came out. The reason for his tardiness was tucked under his good arm, a tuba case. He must have gone all the way up to the band pit for it, tubas were one of the few things I had not learned from him.  
  
"For the body?" I asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
I'll spare you the details, but it eventually came about that the body was fitted, rather uncomfortably and with a few sharp cracking sounds, into the case.  
  
I stood up, brushing off the legs of my pants, as Father did the same.  
  
"Now what?" I asked.  
  
"Now we go for Nadir."  
  
%Scene Change%  
  
Nadir lived in the one part of Paris that was inhabited totally by Muslims. It was a fine place, a patchwork of the different nationalities who lived there. You were as likely to see a Persian Mansion as a house of apartments.  
  
Nadir lived in a one-room apartment in one of the tallest, and dingiest, buildings in the entire place. I had never seen it before, but Father appearently knew just where it was. I merely followed.  
  
The door to the room was a splintered, holish mess, as if someone had tried to kick it in and it had simply crumpled under their foot. Father's pounding alone was enough to make the poor thing shake and loose even more wood.  
  
"Alright!" came a voice from within the room, in Arabic, "Alright! I'm coming already!"  
  
---------------------------Nadir------------------------------  
  
When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was Erik, with a tuba case set on the ground behind him.  
  
"This had better be important, Erik. I'm a bit busy." Darn right I was... Darn right.  
  
"It is, daroga."  
  
"Shh! Don't call me that! There are other reasons for me to be in Paris than you, and I don't need everyone to know who I am! What do you need?" I stepped into the hall and pulled the door almost-closed behind me. Really, the hall shouln't move so.  
  
"I need your help. I'm wounded, and I need to get rid of a body, an important body, in a way that will not make anyone too worried."  
  
"Whose... Lyra!"  
  
She had just moved out from behind him, in a cheap outfit that showed off her knife and lasso on her hip. I could feel her eyes peel into me as she surveyed me. She stood still, not seeming to notice the floor bucking and twitching beneath her.  
  
"Hello Nadir. Really, if you want the whole story, you should invite us in. This is not a private place, and it's a long story."  
  
----------------------------------Erik---------------------------  
  
Because it was the middle of the night, his attire was not surprising. A tattered dressing gown, thrown over, well, not much. However, I knew his wife was still in Persia, so the dulcet voice that called from within was surprising.  
  
"Ali? Ali where did you go?"  
  
"Or, Ali," I said, amused, "We could wait out here for a few minutes."  
  
"Perhaps that would be best, Erik, Lyra. Excuse me." He turned and staggered back into the room.  
  
-----------------------------Lyra---------------------------------  
  
Father leaned up against the wall, resting, as we waited. Personally, I wouldn't have trusted it with my weight. We didn't have to wait long. There was a semi-muffled conversation, a few loud exclamations, the sound of coins hitting each other, a slapping sound, and the door opened to let out a beautiful girl, wrapped in her clothes, with a fistful of coins clasped in her hands. She looked at us, gave a gasp-scream in some half-garbled language, and ran down the stairs. (I had seen my mother drunk enough times to recognise it.) A few seconds more and the door opened again, this time to eject a rumpled, but thoroughly clad, Nadir, with the white imprint of a hand on his cheek. Father was barely able to cut off his own laughter, instead giving off a very fake sneeze.  
  
"D--- you Erik. Alright, come in." His voice had an unusual lilt.  
  
We came. There was very little in the room. A cot, quite rumpled and a bit wet, leaned against one wall. Beside it was a tattered, dirty prayer rug. Beside that was a clutter of drug paraphanalia, which Father took in, and hurredly turned away from. I could make out a hooka, several syringes, and innumerable bottles and packets. In the last remaining bit of space was a pile of clothes, dirty and rather fetid.  
  
I looked at Nadir again, this time seeing what I had missed before. His eyes were glassy and rimmed with a yellowish substance. The pupils were small, and the whites were nearly red. His face was so pale that it was almost yellow. I was amazed that the girl would sleep with him, even if she was drunk. He was obviously sick, and even more obviously stoned. I hadn't seen anyone this badly off for years.  
  
------------------------Erik--------------------------------  
  
Nadir looked like Death himself, and the room reeked of it. The smell of the room was almost enough to send me out of it. Opium, excretement, semen, and beer mixed to form a smell that would make a pig gag.  
  
"Good grief, Nadir, this is..."  
  
"This ish my home. 'T's changed a bit, eh Erik?"  
  
The hookah was still smoking slightly, and a syringe was laying on the prayer rug, half full. I stared at the room for a few more seconds, letting it sink in. Then Nadir collapsed.  
  
"Overdose?" Lyra asked, trying to hold him up.  
  
"No, worse. Leave the body, we'll come back for it. He's mixed drugs, and he's sick. We've got to get him out of here."  
  
"Will he die?" Her voice trembled.  
  
"Probably. Come on."  
  
-----------------------------Lyra----------------------------  
  
The smell in the room left me a bit light headed and detached. It seemed as if I was watching us take Nadir out of there, running down stairs and through alleys with him stretched between our shoulders. We were half way home before I realised where we were going. I felt like throwing up, the whole situation turned my stomach. In fact, that seemed like a good idea. As soon as we were at the house, I stumbled outside, pulled off my mask, and quietly released my dinner, which hadn't been in there long enough to do any good anyway. I felt it splatter against my pants and shoes and had enough time to be disgusted at my aim before another wave came. And another. It had been just like mother. It had been just like Grimmerie Street. I would never escape. Everything caught up with me then, and I cried as I heaved, dryly.  
  
Finally, it stopped. By then, I was on my hands and knees, covered in it. I rocked back, sitting down and still crying. Then, a furry something butted my hand. I looked down, and it was one of the kittens. He was completely black, it looked as if Father had been right about his parentage. I patted him, and then realised just what was on my hand. I wiped it on the ground, and patted him again. He purred, and looked up at me. Some freak of nature had decided that he inherited his father's coat, and his mother's eyes. I stopped him from climbing up on my shirt, as he seemed determined to do  
"No, fellow. I need to get cleaned up, again."  
  
He butted my hand.  
  
"Alright then. Come if you want." I picked him up, sure that I would get yet another set of kitty-claws dug into my hand. Instead, he just sat there, mewing up at me. I smiled. "Right then," I said, turning back to the house.  
  
In one window, the one that looks in on the parlor, was Ayesha, looking satisfied. (Did she ever look anything else?) I would almost swear that she had sent the kitten out to comfort me. I smiled at her, and I'm still sure that she smiled back. Then she ignored me again, and scratched her head.  
  
-That's it!- I thought, -The headaches! The loss of balance! Delerium! Christine has a brain tumor!-  
  
A/N: (Don't know if brain tumors were recognised back then, but at least she isn't a complete nut case! Really, she isn't that bad, and I couldn't bear for her to be that. So, my friends, what do you think? Tell me! Review! 


	13. Exile

A/N: If there is one thing that everyone agrees on, it's that I've gone nuts. Hey, I just write it out. There is a reason for everything, you know. Don't give up on me! Here's the next chapter.  
  
----------Erik---------  
  
Nadir's survival was nothing short of a miracle. Once Lyra came back inside, it took both of us to bleed him. I wished that she didn't have to see that, not with everything else, but there was no help for it. Nadir was almost comatose, but as soon as I pulled out the bleeding knife he erupted from the bed with the strength of a madman. Still, I knew no other way to get the drugs out.  
  
It took about two days for him to regain sanity, and then we had to deal with the sickness. It was an infection that you can only get one way. I had known, of course, that Nadir enjoyed the company of women, but I had never imagined that he would sink so low. Anyway, during the ensuing chaos, someone found de Changy's body in the apartment. It was all over town in a few hours, but there was no news of the tuba case, a point that I made certain of through Leros. The eventual conclusion was that he had been looking for "the Persian" to find out more about "The Phantom," "Which" Christine said to the police "is very likely." The neighborhood explained the rest.  
  
Finally, Nadir was aware enough to know exactly what had happened, and why. He could get up and move around, but the withdrawal was still there. It was inevitable, I suppose, that he try and fix it. What reason did he have for quitting? So, I found him one night, slumped in a chair before the fire, with the morphine on the table beside him.  
  
---------------------Lyra--------------------------------  
  
I was there that night, in the room as well. I had just come back from a grocery run with some more food for the cats. The only ones left were Ayesha and Mozart, the black kitten, but they ate alot! The rest had gone to Leros to distribute to good homes. We had been too busy with Nadir to be able to do anything else with them. Too busy to do much besides talk, really. It was during that time I learned about Father's life. But anyway...  
  
I walked in as Father yanked Nadir out of the seat. "What gives you the right Nadir?! This is my house and you are not important enough for the risk!" He picked up the syringe and about three-hundered dollars of liquid morphine and chucked them into the fire. Nadir was awake enough to give a small scream at that. He started out of the chair, only to be stopped again.  
  
"Not in this house, Nadir. You can shoot yourself up on the steps of the gallows, or in a churchyard for all I care, but not here!"  
  
-------------------Erik----------------------------------  
  
I was about as angry as I can get, but I remember all of it. I didn't black out as I usually do. I remember picking him up again, and storming into Lyra's room. I remember pulling the wardrobe away from the wall, exposing the door there, and the window above it. "Sleep it off in there, and stay in there for all I care!" I threw him in, closed the door behind him, hit a switch on the wall that turned on the lights, and moved the wardrobe back in front of the torture-chamber door.  
  
-------------------------Lyra------------------------------  
  
I was, for the first time in my life, afraid of the man I thought of as my father. The door might have had something to do with it. I had no idea where it went, but I knew without a doubt that it was not good. He turned, and the expression on his face was enough to make me take a few steps back, involuntarily. He would kill in this mood, I knew. I recognised it. He took a few steps foreward, his hand out, and I didn't stop to think. I ran, and hard. But, I was only thirteen. I might have been fast, but he had longer legs. He caught me before I could reach the lake.  
  
That expression was imprinted on the back of my eyelids. I had no idea what he wanted, but I didn't seem to realise this. Panic was my world right then. I struggled in his hands, using, and having nullified, every move I knew. I fought until I couldn't any more. Exhausted, I looked up at him.  
  
His eyes, glowing golden, showed no hate or anger. Instead they looked confused, terrified, and sad. "Lyra?" he asked.  
  
I collapsed against him, sobbing. "You were going to kill me!"  
  
----------------------Erik----------------------------------  
  
-WHAT?!! I would never...- Then I remembered how it had felt. I had wanted the morphine, badly. It had just been sitting there, and... -Oh Lord forgive me.- I had as good as killed him by throwing him in there for bringing it back to me. How it felt to be so far away from everything, even yourself. I had meant to kill him. Throwing him in there in that state was just about as good as killing him. She must have seen something of that and... -I would have run too.- I thought. -Who knows what I might have done if she hadn't run. I want to believe that nothing would have happened. I want to.-  
  
"I'm sorry Lyra. I'm sorry."  
  
---------------------------Lyra------------------------------  
  
The wardrobe was moved to the side again and the door opened. Nadir was pulled out and sent off to the parlor to sleep it off. I fought for sleep in my own bed, as far from the mysterious door as I could get. I knew what Father had felt, and he hadn't argured with me that he wouldn't have killed me. This place was not safe, but I was needed here. I couldn't leave again.  
  
The next morning, after I had slept for about three hours, I got up and went to the kitchen. There I found Father, making himself breakfast. I fixed myself a croissant and sat down with it and an orange, pretending to read "Jane Eyre" but actually watching him carefully. He was watching me the same way. Ayesha and Mozart came in to break up the silence, but it didn't work.  
  
It was two silent hours until Nadir woke, groggy, nursing a hangover, and under no illusions as to what had happened. With his awakening, the silence only thickened. Our cats had attatched themselves to us, and everytime we were in the same room, they went into fits of hissing. He ate a quick, small breakfast, and went out of the door.  
  
Father was there before I was.  
  
----------------------------Erik------------------------  
  
"Where are you going, Nadir?"  
  
"Away. I'm not needed here, and you can do me no more good."  
  
"So, you mean to go off and kill youself, as you were trying to before."  
  
"I was already stoned, and the pain wouldn't go away. I decided to make it, that's all."  
  
"And now you're going about it knowingly."  
  
"Your a fine one to talk, Erik. How did you find the girl? You talked in your sleep during the withdrawal, you know. 'I can't live without her' I think were your exact words. You would have killed yourself because of Christine. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's hipocrites. Now, Lyra's just like you, with her little knife and bit of rope. She's the one who killed Raoul, isn't she? I told you this would happen. Get rid of her, for both of your sakes."  
  
"Oh, hail the great wise one. You make me sick."  
  
"Nobody likes to see their own image. I imagine that I even LOOKED a bit like you at the worst didn't I? Now, I just want peace. You can burn for all I care. I wash my hands of you, and your brat."  
  
"Get out of here Nadir. Out."  
  
And he did.  
  
Another A/N: Well, crazy or not, that's how it is! What do you think? Tell me! 


	14. School, again!

IMPORTANT NOTE: If you have read my story, The Origin, Disregard It! I have new, bigger plans! (But it is unlikely that any of you have read it, because it was really bad and hasn't gotten a single review, so it doesn't really matter!)  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own Erik, or no one else you seen any where else. A few of these guys DO belong to me, though, and I'd like to know before they go galavanting off into the realm.  
  
Plea for reviews: I am a shameless review junkie, feed my habit!  
  
--------------Lyra----------------  
  
Father came in, hands clenched and jaw set. It must have taken a lot of will not to blow up, and I didn't know how much longer he could hold his temper. I didn't have a chance to find out. He brushed past me and into the music room. Three hours later, he came out, disheveled and, for the first time I had ever seen him, visibly exhausted.  
"Are you okay?"  
"Yes." He leaned against the wall. "I'm just tired. Looking after that fool was no vacation."  
"There's no need to tell me that!" I remembered the long nights and early mornings all too well. "I was there too you know! But I can't think that that little marathon helped any after last night!"  
He laughed drowsily. "No, probably not. If you'll excuse me, I need some sleep. We'll talk after I wake."  
"Mmm."  
Even as tired as he was, he caught my tone. "What?"  
"Nothing. As you said, after you wake."  
He nodded and stumbled out of the room. He didn't wake up until the next afternoon.  
  
"Twenty-four hours!? That's just impossible!"  
"I'm afraid not Father, maybe it's something in the water, but you were well and truly out of it. I couldn't bring myself to wake you. Here, have some tea. I used that old samovar in the cupboard."  
"Would you be quiet about the water? I've used it for twenty years, and it's never done any harm to me. (pause) Well, you're getting better, the tea's not bad, but don't put as many leaves in next time."  
"Right. But you've really got no idea where it comes from. The water I mean." I paused. "Father, um, about Christine."  
He frowned, turning toward me slightly. "What about her?"  
"Well, I didn't tell you before, but she, I didn't want to worry you, you know."  
"Lyra, for goodness sakes, spit it out!"  
"Well... When I... I told you she had mood swings."  
"Yes. I intend to look into it as soon as I can, but we HAVE been a bit busy."  
"Father, she was also having headaches, and her balance was off. And, when she had the dead baby, she sang to it and acted as if it was alive."  
He set down the cup. "What are you getting at Lyra?"  
"Um, well, remember when you gave me that book about brain disorders? The one that had a section about tumors?"  
"Good lord!" He was up and out of the house in moments.  
"Where are you going?!" I cried after him.  
"To return a horse!"  
Fine. Meanwhile, I had something to do myself. Three days later, while I was comfortably studying in the parlor, he arrived.  
"Christine," he said, uncomfortably shrugging off his coat and collapsing into a chair, "has appearently taken her child and left for Sweden. I've hired a team of investigators, but she could dissappear there as easily as you or I could."  
"I'm sorry Father. Surely she'll figure it out, won't she? She'll visit a doctor."  
"I hope so."  
I looked at him, sitting there, utterly dispondent. "Maybe," I added, reluctantly, "you could go after her."  
He smiled at me. "No, Lyra. I can't. Thank you, though," he paused. "I've got too much keeping me here. I must be getting old."  
"You're not old, Father."  
"I'm older than you think, I'm sure. But, what about you?"  
"Me?"  
'What were you doing in Grimmerie Street again?"  
I bent to pick up Mozart, scratching behind his ears, giving him all of my attention. "You do have sources don't you? I just went to find out about my mother."  
"And?"  
"She died only a few days after she abandoned me. She was killed by the cab driver, Jaques, when they were both drunk."  
"It's not your fault, you know."  
I exploded. "But, I should have known! I should have found out years ago! Instead, I just worried about myself!"  
"You were six years old! You had every right to worry about yourself. When I found you, you were little more than a skin-wrapped skeleton! A few more weeks would have found you in a grave with seven or eight other bodies and lye poured over you!"  
"I know! But, I still should have tried to find out years ago! She was my mother!"  
"It took me almost twenty years to go back to my mother after I ran away. In that time, I thought as little about her as I could. She made my life miserable. I had no obligations to her, because she did nothing for me but give me this!" He jestured at his mask, or his face, or both. Then he tore his mask off and threw it onto a table. Thank goodness he had worn the cloth one while traveling, the ceramic one would have shattered everywhere. "Lyra, so help me, if you blame yourself I'LL never forgive you."  
I laughed, despite myself. "All right, Father." Still though, I did blame myself, a little.  
We slipped back into our old schedule, with music taking up most of the time, but we both knew that something had to change. The house on the lake was home, but I missed the sun and the outside. Father was still worried about my schooling. So, it came to a decision.  
  
-----------------------Erik------------------------------  
  
"Oh Father!" she exclaimed, "Not again! Another boarding school?!"  
"No, Lyra. That obviously won't work. There is, however, a school nearby, in the Opera House actually, that might work. You'd really be here, and we could control what happened. If you got in trouble, or were tempted to do something, you could come down here. If the Thernandiers found you, it would be easy to dissappear. And, you'd still get credit for everything you can do. With background in a school, you could get a job anywhere, doing anything."  
"We've been through this, Papa. I've heard these arguements before. And, as always, you're right. I'll go. How do I get in?"  
"I know the teacher." I did indeed, even if she didn't know me.  
  
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"Now, girls, on to your ballet class. Line up against the wall, all of you."  
I watched, disgusted. The girls, who ranged from seven to nineteen, were all children of the cast and crew of the opera. On the far side was Andre's girl, Elizabeth. Next to her were the young Salaziri twins.  
And directing the class were Madame Giry, and her daughter, Madame Salaziri. Madame Giry was so old, she reigned over the class form a throne- like wheel-chair. It's black fabric, and the black of her dress, made her look like a stern skeleton. Her daughter, who seemed to be doing most of the work nowadays, stood next to the chair, her hand on the back.  
-Really Father!- I thought, joining the girls on the wall, -Ballet!-  
  
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Megan Salaziri was about as far from Meg Giry as she could be. I remembered Mlle Giry as a slight, silly, ungifted ballet rat. Madame Salaziri, however, was a tall, composed, woman of about thirty, with a stern set of mouth and a gleam in her eye. What she lacked in talent, she made up for in experience. Plus, she was a marvelous teacher. That is, she was strict and headstrong, not allowing anything out of line from anyone. I settled in, behind the huge mirror on one wall. Too bad that the main class was ballet, but some things couldn't be helped. As Lyra walked by, I saw the look of disgust and dirision on her face. I grinned. -Put up with it Lyra, at least you're still in Paris.-  
  
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On the other side of the room was the piano, being jangled by Mssr Salaziri. The poor thing seemed as if it would fall apart at any moment, and it was dreadfully out of tune. The noise coming from it was little more than that, noise. Salaziri wasn't doing it any good, either.  
But, I didn't care. I paid more attention to Salaziri than to the distorted notes he made. He had taught every other class all day, and that was really the best thing about this school. His golden skin and pale gold hair framed eyes the perfect blue of the sky. As he played, he looked up and smiled at Marie Andre, and his smile was enough to make me blush madly behind my mask, even though it wasn't for me. Marie was little better off. -So what if he can't play?- I thought. -He can surely smile! And he has a doctorate from Oxford! He looks like Apollo, even if he doesn't play like him!-  
"Now, class, to work!" cried Madame Salaziri. "Stretches on three! One, two, Three!"  
-Stretches?- I thought. -What stretches?- I looked over at the mirror, mimicing the girl beside me. I was all too aware that I was at least three counts off, and falling even more behind, but no one pointed it out or corrected me. -It's sink or swim, Lyra.- I thought. -But don't count on these people for life-rafts!-  
Finally, after making a fool of myself for nearly an hour, it was time for Math. -Step aside you lot! I'll wipe the floor with you!- I made my way to my isolated desk at the back of the class.  
"Now, girls," said Mr. Salaziri. "Due to our, um, new student." -No, he didn't shiver. Stop imagining things.- "We will be taking an evaluatory quiz. Don't worry about your grade," he went on, over the groans, "you will not receive one. This is only to see how much you have improved! Or," -You're seeing things, he didn't shiver!- "How far along you are. Will the row leaders please take one and pass it down?"  
As soon as I clamped my hands on my quiz, I had no worries. This was my domain, I couldn't be made a fool of here. No one would ever contest my knowledge. I was done with the test before most of the others were a fourth of the way through. After that I just doodled lines of music in the margins.  
"Very good, Marie. You've got nearly half of them right! Oh, Franceska, you really should have known that. Although, you did two questions better than last time. Lisa, the square root of 121 is eleven, ot thirteen."  
-He's coming down this isle now. Three people away, two...-  
"Angelique, this is really a good try! Give it a better shot next time."  
-He's picking up my paper! He'll smile and say 'Oh Lyra, this is wonderful! Full marks! Who put you in this school? You should really be in a college!'-  
Instead, he shuddered as he held the packet and hurridly glanced through it. Then he rushed on past me. He never even glanced at me. I wasn't a person. I was the daughter of a phantom, and the antithesis of what a good little girl should be. I was a monster. But I would not cry.  
"Jacquiline, this is quite good!"  
I would not cry.  
  
Lunch was next, and I was actually looking foreward to it. Maybe, just maybe, there would be somebody like Sara there. A friend who would be willing to listen to my half of the story. Somebody who wasn't prejudiced. I didn't have a lunch pail, how could I eat with a mask on? So I tried to make a place for myself.  
"Hello," I said, with a smile in my voice. (This was the largest group of girls, and really they looked quite silly. But everyone has to start somewhere.) "May I sit here?"  
I realised, too late, that this was Marie Andre's group. Really, she reminded me of a second Jezzelle, she was obviously the queen of the court and she had a "What is that smell?" look on her face.  
"I'm sorry," she said, "but only humans are allowed here." The girls gasped behind her. "Marie, sit down, you shouldn't."  
"I'm as human as you!"  
"No, you are a phantomess," she said, with the air of one who is educating a particuarly slow child. "The daughter (illigitimate, I am sure) of an aging phantom, who can only steal from better parents through blackmail."  
I rose to the bait. "You would do well not to insult my father in his own house."  
"This is my father's opera!"  
"Your father is a co-manager, and not a very good one, at that. Because of his, and his partner's, ineptitude, the Opera Garnier is losing patrons right and left. Soon, despite all of my father's efforts, your father will not have a job, and this great building will fall into disrepair. You, I suppose, will have to sell that magnificent dress of yours to buy food. Perhaps if your father wasn't tone deaf.."  
"Shut up! You Monster!"  
I balled my fists. "If the truth hurts you that much, Mlle., you should not provoke people into speaking it." I turned my back and walked to the other side of the room, deliberately avoiding looking at the mirror. -Please, don't let Father be there. Don't let him have seen that.- But I looked, and there was a dim outline, only visible if you knew what you were looking for, of a man. I wasn't sure wether to be proud or ashamed of myself.  
"Phantom Child, come here."  
The crickety old voice came from the black wheel-chair in the corner. Really, I didn't want to be told off now, not while I was still breathing hard from the adrenaline pumping through me. But I went over.  
The chair was turned away from the mirror, and close up, you could see why. The woman was old, probably over seventy, much older than Father, or almost anyone else I had ever seen. She smelled like a wilting flower, and it was so sickly-sweet that it made me nausious.  
"Hello Phantom Child."  
"Please, madame, my name is Lyra."  
"I'm too old to remember names. A phantom child is what you are so Phantom Child is who you are. Or would you rather be called Monster?"  
"No Madame."  
"I thought not." She was silent for a while. "I once knew you father. Did he tell you?"  
"Yes Madame. He told me that you were a great help to him."  
She perked up. "Well, I was at that! But, I bet you'd like to know what really happened, from my viewpoint, wouldn't you?"  
"Well, yes, Madame."  
"Mama? Mama, what are you doing over there?" Mr. Salaziri practically ran to his mother-in-law's aid, worried to death. "Mama, it's time for your medication."  
"It is not, Carlos, and you know it. I have the right to talk to who I want, when I want, where I want, and if it pleases me to talk to Phantom Child, then talk to her I will."  
"But, Mama."  
"No buts!" The man jumped back as if he had been struck. Then the woman turned to me "I will talk to you tomorrow at lunch, Phantom Child."  
"Yes ma'am." I said, backing away. The smell was really too much. This time I sought refuge by the mirror, where I had seen Father's shadow. No sooner was I there than,  
"Listen here Feo. You leave my step-mother alone. She is old and loco, and you can not help her. All you can do is hurt her. Leave her alone."  
"Tu mujer es muy divertido, interesante, y inteligente. No es loco. Y me llamo no es Feo. Me llamo es Lyra Angen. That's not an easy mistake to make, Se~nor"  
"I don't care what your name is, leave her...."  
He trailed off, staring over my shoulder. I turned and saw Father's outline fading back into the mirror. Sr. Salaziri had lost about three shades in his skin color.  
"Just leave her alone," he finished, staring wildly at the mirror. Then he took off across the room, as fast as he could go and remain diginified.  
I glared at the mirror, sure that Father would know what I was doing. "I can," I whispered, "take care of myself, thank you very much."  
The mirror remained silent.  
"Crazy. Talking to her reflection," came a voice from across the room. "Probably cursing it. Wouldn't you? I mean, she probably doesn't even have a face! Wait, my mistake, that's no she! That's an It!"  
Oh, she would pay.  
That night I pillaged and plundered the room of the girl who had insulted me during the day. Rats went into drawers, cockroaches into make- up kits. Worms slithered along the sides of potted plants. And then I sat back and enjoyed the screams.  
But something else must have happened too, because that was the last time she dared to stand up to me, or even look at me. She was obviously just as terrified now as all of the other girls had been before No one ever insulted me again.  
Or did anything else. Never did one take any notice of me, except maybe to squeal with fright when I popped out from behind a corner. They were scared to death of me, Madame Salaziri was too preoccupied with other things to even notice me, Sr. Salaziri handed me my papers silently, and I sat alone. Excepting lunch, that is. Then I would sit at the feet of Madame Giry, where the smell was better, and listen to her tell me of her life. Ballet I found mindless and pointless, but I struggled to do it well, to please Madame Giry, the only person who treated me as a human being. After lessons, I would sit by her throne and listen to all the tales she cared to tell. Sometimes she would prattle on for hours, about everything. Sometimes she would forget and tell me the same story over and over again. And, sometimes, she refused, utterly, to talk to me at all.  
So, I took classes for three years. After Marie graduated, I moved to the head of the ballet class, and stayed there as all of the girls under me moved on to the corps. I moved to the head of everything, and stayed there, bored out of my mind, as the other girls struggled with fractions and flirted with Salaziri until they left. There were sometimes thirty girls in the class, and yet I was utterly alone.  
At first, I would go straight home after school. Then, I got rather angry at the flighty idiots that looked at me in fear whenever they saw me. I took to frequenting their rooms after school, listening to them giggle and moan over school, and shreik over the stories they told about me and Father. Then, I began to live up to thier stories. They would find their toe shoes filled with cow dung, or some equally nasty ingredient. They could never prove that I had done anything of course, and I planted evidence in the other girls' rooms. I broke cliques as quickly as most people break eggs. Then I moved on to separate them from their boy-friends and lovers. I was determined that they would be as miserable as I was, and they were.  
But I grew, and bored with them. Their silly problems and ideas seemed one-demensional. I no longer cared. I decided to find something else to do with my time.  
Father had, of course, watched me at all of this, but he had never interfered, probably because he knew that it would do no good. I had latched on to those girls and worried them as a dog does a bone, and now I tossed them aside. The problem was, of course, that now I had nothing to do. I had graduated from the school, and suddenly there was a huge hole in my daily schedule. Father was always busy with his architecture buisness, which was booming, and I tried to help him, but I found it boring, creating what other people wanted. I took to wandering around the Opera, just watching people.  
I found the singers pretentious and boring, the dancers silly and stupid, the managers far too worried about finance, and the set people too visual. Then, I happened upon the orchestra.  
  
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Thank you all for reading this far! And again, thanks to my incredible reviewers! 


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